


What lies they told us

by darter_blue



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mob Boss Bucky Barnes, Modern Bucky Barnes, Nurse Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Suspense, Team as Family, all the Howlies, but minimal - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28415520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darter_blue/pseuds/darter_blue
Summary: Steve spins around and has to put a hand out to the bar to steady himself at what he finds. The voice belongs to a guy that shouldn't be real. A guy with long dark hair falling across his shoulders in waves. Eyes that catch the light and flash through shades of steel and blue. And cheekbones that shouldn't exist outside of a magazine. A guy that is staring at Steve and smiling. 'Um, hi,' Steve says, breathless and fumbling to sit back on the stool behind him, 'Uhh...' He's trying to speak but his brain won't cooperate.'Oh, he's shy,' the guys says, stepping into Steve's space. He makes an elegant hand gesture to the bartender and then leans his body into the bar, 'Must be my lucky day.'An AU where Steve and Bucky have a forgotten history, an undeniable attraction, and are about to lose everything except each other.For my Bucky Barnes Bingo square: C1/ AU: Mobsters
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 409
Kudos: 362
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An authors note - before we start...
> 
> This fic is violent. It's a mafia au - there's no getting around that. It will be explicit, but it will take some time to get there. It includes some minor character death, minor characters that are still important to the story. I want to warn you that some loss will be dealt with by the characters, and if that is something that will hurt you, I don't mind if you need to turn back now. 
> 
> Make sure you look after yourselves first - always.
> 
> BUT - it has a happy ending!! It has some sweetness and fluff (because this is me) and I will always give the pain the emotional weight it deserves.
> 
> I'm looking at six chapters, alternating POV between Steve and Bucky. And some angst. And a lot of pining. 
> 
> I hope you stick with me. This story is my heart on a plate for you all. Be gentle.
> 
> Biggest thanks to [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for the brilliant beta. And cheerleading.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy.

‘Steven Grant Rogers!’

Steve rolls his eyes. How his Ma manages to make him feel like a twelve year old kid the minute he walks into the family home is as dependable as the woman herself. 

‘Ma!’ Steve calls back, shucking his shoes and hanging his coat in the hallway.

‘What time do you call this?’ His ma says, popping her head around the door frame to peer into the hallway, ‘You were supposed to be here an hour ago!’

‘I had to work late, I wanted to have a shower before I got here.’ Steve closes in on his mother - who has disappeared back into the kitchen - ‘All I remember from last week was you grumbling about how I didn’t look fit for dinner. Now I take time to make an effort and I’m still in trouble.’

‘It’s not too much to ask,’ Sarah Rogers says, her eyes zeroing in on Steve as he steps through the doorway into the kitchen, ‘That my only son arrives dressed and respectable for a family dinner, _on time_?’

‘No ma,’ Steve says with a long suffering sigh, leaning down to drop a kiss on her cheek, ‘It’s not.’

  
  


‘Okay good - now, that Brock Rumlow is here for dinner, so stick a smile on your face and go butter him up for me.’

‘Ma, why?’ Steve says, attempting to hide his giant frame behind his ma, hoping it might work to save him, ‘He’s so creepy.’

‘I need him to help me with something, and he’s always had a sweet spot for you, Stevie.’

‘He’s always just staring at my crotch, he’s awful.’

‘We use what god gave us,’ his ma says, raising an eyebrow before turning back to her stove, ‘Go and be nice.’

Steve crosses his arms and leans back on the counter. He may be a twenty eight year old man, with his own apartment and his own life, but something about this house always turns him into a pouty teenager. 

'Steven' - oh he knows he's in trouble when it's _Steven_ \- 'I don't ask you for much. God knows I always supported you when you wanted to leave, when you _left me_ , but I need this from you today.'

Ah, the catholic guilt. Nobody does disappointment like the Irish. Still, the words hurt, just like his ma knows they will. A part of Steve will always be sad that he didn’t stay to follow in his family’s footsteps. But Steve is not built for violence. He prefers to put people back together, not take them apart.

‘And don't give me that face. I need some help with George Barnes and Brock is working for him now.’

‘You need help with George Barnes?’ Steve lowers his voice at that. George Barnes is bad, bad news.

‘I need a favour from him… so I need a favour from Brock.’

‘What kind of favour,’ Steve leans closer, puts a hand to his mothers arm, a warning or comfort… he’s not sure what she needs, ‘Are we in trouble?’

‘No, it's… some of the smaller places want liquor licences now, they can’t make enough money to stay afloat as a bring-your-own-booze, and George can get them cheaper,’ Sarah stops him before he can argue, placing her own hand over his, ‘It’s time anyway, Steve. We can’t avoid them forever.’

‘I don’t like you even breathing the same air as that family, ma. They’re not good people.’

‘Well, you gave up all your rights to have a choice now, didn’t you. So get your cute butt in there and bat your eyelashes and get that boy good and ready to say yes when I ask him for a favour. Understood?'

'Yes ma.' Steve can do that at least. His mother deserves so much more. 'But I'm doing it all from a distance. I don't want him touching me.'

'Well, that's because you're a smart boy, Stevie. I didn't raise an idiot.'

'You did not.' Steve leans down to press another quick kiss into her cheek and then squares his shoulders. 'And I expect the biggest piece of cake for this.'

'Yeah, yeah - get out of my kitchen.'

Steve does as he's told, throwing a smile back over his shoulder at his ma, standing at the stove overlooking every dish that she's lovingly prepared, like she always lovingly prepares on a Sunday night. It's tradition. And seeing as Steve doesn't go to mass anymore, doesn't do any of the "family meetings" or "business gatherings" that his ma holds at the restaurant, hasn't for a long time, this is one he intends to keep, and honour, for as long as his life will allow.

His ma gives him a half smile in return. Rolls her eyes and shoos him with the spatula. And Steve pokes his head out into the dining room to get eyes on his mission for the evening, sitting at the table with his phone in his hand and a beer in front of him. An empty bread basket to his left.

Of course Brock would eat all the fucking bread. What an asshole.

Steve steps through into the room and Brock looks up from his phone and smiles. It's not a nice smile. It's all teeth, it doesn't reach his eyes. And Steve doesn't trust him, not one tiny bit. He hates that this is the kind of person his ma does business with on the regular. But that is her life. That was her choice. It's not Steve's place to judge.

'Hey, Stevie Rogers!' Brock says, getting up from his chair.

'Hey Brock,' Steve says, and extends a hand over the table to shake. At least that way he can avoid a hug. And thank god his ma has set the table so they are opposite each other. 'How's it going?'

'Oh, better now,' Brock looks Steve up and down. his eyes lingering on the crotch of Steve's good chino's. Jesus, why did he choose tonight to dress up? These pants are too fucking tight. 'It's been a while huh? What are you doing again? Orderly at the hospital or something?'

'Nurse.' Steve knows that Brock knows that. He's patched Brock up on at least three separate occasions at the back of his ma's restaurant. Because the hospital asks too many questions about knife wounds.

'Right, right, nurse. I bet you look cute in that little uniform, right?'

'So,' Steve says, desperate to change the subject, 'How's your job going, I hear you’re running for George Barnes now?'

And maybe that's a sore subject, because Brock's face shuts down as soon as Steve mentions the name. 'Actually he's just about to hand over the keys to one of his clubs to me,' Brock says, eyes narrowed.

It’s not said with the kind of pride you might expect from someone about to inherit a business and Steve doesn't believe him for a second. But he has a job to do tonight. And interrogating Brock into fessing up would be the opposite of what his ma needs. 'Oh, well that's awesome,' Steve does the best approximation of excitement that his voice can find, 'Which club?'

Brock‘s eyes dart away from Steve before he answers, ‘The Red Room, down on East seventeenth.’

Steve knows that club. Brock would have to pry the keys for that place from George Barnes cold dead fingers. He’s a fucking liar. ‘Right, wow. That’s big news.’

'Yeah it's - big. I've always had my eye on making it to the top,' Brock says, seemingly warming to his subject, perking up a little at the insinuation that he's just as important as he thinks he is, 'That place was practically made for me.'

'In what way?' Steve asks, genuinely curious how Brock might spin this.

'Well the owners get all the pussy, right?' Brock raises his eyebrows and practically shows fangs with his sneer.

Steve almost vomits in his mouth. 'Pretty sure Romanova would cut off your dick before she let you touch her girls,' Steve says, and winces when he feels a slap upside his head. He didn't even realise his ma was there.

'Watch your language,' she says, placing a roast chicken down on the table and then turning back to the kitchen, 'That goes for you too, Brock.'

'Sorry Mrs Rogers,' Brock calls out to her retreating form. But the smile on his face invalidates the apology and _Christ_ , Steve hates him. He's revolting. 'And Romanova won't be there forever.'

Steve wants to ask why. He’s a slut for gossip, always has been. Even if he wants nothing to do with the actuality of the business. Plus, he’s always had a soft spot for Natalia. She could gut a man with her stiletto mid dance, and the crowd would only throw more money at her. The woman is fierce.

But he also doesn't have the time or space tonight to get into it. He doesn't want Brock to start down a path that might send Steve over the deep end. He needs to keep Brock happy, keep him light and fluffy and flirty and get whatever it is is his ma needs from him so that he can get the fuck out of here and back to his apartment in Crown Heights, where his bed is waiting for him.

And he needs to not turn up to dinner next week if this is the kind of subterfuge he should expect from his mother of a Sunday night. He tries to focus on his task, tries to look Brock in the eye and not flinch. And it must work at least a little, because Brock is leaning over to peer at the roast, eyeing off what's going to be the best piece. Steve knows all of it is going to be cooked perfectly, and he's not greedy, he'll take whatever's left, as long as Brock leaves him _something_. It's the potatoes for Steve anyway. His ma's potato casserole is its own food group, and Steve's been waiting all shift for a plateful.

'And are you umm... so is it... you seeing anyone lately?' Steve asks. _Jesus_ he's awkward.

But Brock is smiling his grinch grin again, 'Oh a few, here and there,' he says, another raise to his eyebrows, 'But there's always room for one more.'

Steve has to fight not to physically choke at that. Just nods his head. As if that's not one of the most disgusting things he's ever heard. 'Oh well, yeah... we should ah... sounds like you have a lot going on.'

'Oh always,' Brock says, and Steve can be happy he's got Brock talking about _himself_. This topic will keep him entertained for the rest of dinner.

And thankfully his ma is back with the potatoes and the buttered peas. More roast vegetables come out and the gravy is the last to arrive at the table, Sarah putting it down with a little flourish.

'Okay, hands please,' his ma says as she reaches over from her spot at the head of the table to grasp both Brock and Steve's palms in her delicate little hands. 'Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen'

‘Amen,’ They say together and then Brock doesn't even wait to let Steve's ma serve, he dives in for the breast, takes just about half the bird for himself and anyone else would get a slap from Sarah Rogers, but she's in public relations mode and so she lets it fly. Steve is almost smug about it, until Brock also takes half the potatoes, and Steve kicks his ma under the table. Only to get a much harder kick in return.

Thankfully Steve doesn't have to try and carry on any conversation while they eat. Brock is a machine. Filthy and guttural, but single minded. And, as requested, when dessert arrives at the table, Steve gets the biggest piece of apple cake and drowns it in double cream.

‘You don’t have ice cream, Mrs Rogers?’

Steve can tell that his ma needs Brock on her side more than ever when she says, ‘I do,’ instead of, ‘We do not put ice cream on cakes in this house young man,’ the way she would have said that to literally anyone else who’s ever sat at this table. 

'So,' Brock says, as he heaps a spoon of ice cream laden apple cake into his mouth - not 'thank you,' or 'delicious cake, Mrs Rogers,' like he should, but, 'What is it we're really doing here tonight?' 

And Steve’s ma steels herself, straightens in her chair, but doesn't balk at the arrogance. 'I need you to get George to sit down with me.'

'No.'

'Hey!' Steve interjects, holding a hand out to Brock, 'Mind your manners, asshole.'

'You don't get to tell me what to do, Stevie. You don't even belong at this table after what you've done to your own family.'

Steve is too shocked by Brock's comment to even answer. He looks over at his ma and she shakes her head, her face sombre.

Is that what everyone thinks? That Steve doesn't deserve a seat at his ma's table?

'Brock, I know you don't run with the McCleary's anymore, but you've broken bread at this table with my family for going on ten years now.' Sarah leans closer to Brock, her elbows on the table, her hands outstretched, palms down, 'I'm asking you for a favour. I'm asking you to help me.'

Brock looks at Steve's ma with narrowed eyes. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. All the while Steve sits at the edge of his seat. Ready for god knows what. 

'What do I get?' Brock asks, smirk barely hidden beneath the sneer, 'What do I get for this favour?'

'What do you _want,_ Brock?'

He tilts his head back, flicks his eyes to the ceiling and back, 'I want access to space in one of your shipments,' he says finally, lifting his chin, 'No questions asked.'

Steve wants to shout 'No!' But his mother is already answering with a nod.

'And you'll get me a meeting with George? Something secure?'

'Sure. I can do that.'

'Thank you, Brock, thank you so much for this.'

'Thank _you_ , Sarah,' Brock‘s smirk intensifies, but the look he receives from Steve's mother shuts it down pretty quickly, 'Mrs Rogers,’ he rectifies, ‘Thank you.' He stands up from the table and pats his pockets to find and pull his keys free. 'I better go, get back to the club, but dinner was great. I'll call you about the Barnes', George will want to bring James.'

'James Barnes?' Steve asks, the idea of both George and James sitting down with his mother leaves him feeling cold. Not that he's seen James since they were both barely teenagers. But Steve has tenderly painful memories of a boy with fluffy hair and a wicked smile. Dark and quiet and full of warmth that was all a lie.

‘Yeah, he’s taking over half the clubs this year, old George has been getting him ready for the head of the table, you know?’

‘That’s fine, that’s no problem,’ Sarah says before Steve can ask anything more, ‘I’ll bring Dugan - he’s always good for a laugh.’ She looks at Steve with some unreadable expression, and then pastes a smile back on for Brock, ‘It’ll be grand Brock, no worries at all.’

‘Good, good, alright, well, it was a pleasure as always, little Stevie Rogers,’ Brock says, like it’s the best joke in the world to call Steve by his middle school nickname now that he’s six foot two and broader than a refrigerator. 

‘I could say the same, Brock,’ Steve says, doesn’t add the - ‘but I wouldn’t’ - because he’d hate to fuck this up for his ma now that its all done and dusted. 

‘Ha, sure,’ Brock says, shark like smile back in force, ‘I’ll catch ya.’ 

Steve watches his ma show him out, following them to the hallway and then leaning against the kitchen doorway while they speak about something in hushed voices. He hates that this is all happening out of his control. But Steve knows. He knows that this life wasn't meant for him.

He hated it growing up. He hates it now.

His ma shuts the door on Brock and turns to watch Steve watching her. She lifts one perfect eyebrow at him, still terrifying even now that he towers over her. Still beautiful, even with the lines that stress and exhaustion have etched into her face over the years since she's been leading the charge.

And Steve can't deny that she's made it into something of her own. The business, the restaurants, the shipments, the community that she's built up here in East Flatbush. It's thriving under Sarah Rogers’ careful governance. But Steve can't stomach the kind of violence necessary to keep it running, to keep their heads above water with the other families.

Christ, he couldn’t even tell you who half of the families are now. He’s been turning his eyes away for so long.

'Don't give me that sad face, boy,' his ma says, never one to suffer fools. And Steve doesn't deserve to be suffered for. He deserves less than half of what his mother is still prepared to offer him. 'No, it's not the tragedy you think it is, Stevie. I'm so proud of you for what you're doing.'

'I left you, ma.'

'You never left me. You left this _life_ , Steve, and you found something better. It's what I always wanted for you.' She steps closer to him as she speaks, finally reaching him and holding out her hands. He takes them gladly. 'I have Dugan and Falsworth to look after me, and they're good boys, with good connections, and we're keeping things cleaner than they've been in a long time. So you don't need to worry about me, okay baby?'

And with what Steve sees in his mother's eyes, that same love and ferocious care she's always had - his breathing eases. His tension fades. He knows his ma and she wouldn't lie to him.

Steve just needs to remember to be here a little bit more often. To be a good son. Maybe actually invite his ma over so _he_ can cook for a change. He smiles at the thought of it, and when Sarah catches it she smiles back. Reaches up and pats him on the cheek.

'I know you want to get home to your bed, sweetie, you should go.'

'Let me help you with the dishes.'

'Aye, no,' his ma says, 'That's what I have a dishwasher for. Get out and go get some sleep, you look like you're gonna fall over.'

'Thanks ma,' he says, bending down to wrap her in as tight a hug as he dares given her tiny frame, 'I love you.'

'Love you, baby, now off with you.,' She shoos him with a wave of her hand behind his head. 'I'll see you next week.'

He nods into her shoulder. Kisses her again for good measure, and then lets her go to head for the door. He turns back once when he gets there. 'Be careful with the Barnes' won't you, ma?'

And she nods. Of course she does, because of course she will be careful. His ma has been doing this a long time. She knows it better than Steve does. So he lets her nod. He lets the door shut behind him. He climbs onto his bike and puts his helmet on. And he kicks the stand and takes off into the night.

But he doesn't go home.

He can't get the Red Room out of his head.

He makes his way to East Seventeenth and parks far enough back that he can watch people coming and going. It's different than he remembers.

He remembers coming here with Dugan and Falsworth as a kid, hardly more than sixteen. His dad was dead. His mother had taken over the business and was finally finding her feet. He'd had the first of many growth spurts, and the boys had taken him to the red room to see Natalia Romanova, though Steve didn't realise at the time that they were keeping the two families from killing each other with an uneasy truce, and taking Steve along as a kind of initiation.

The floors were sticky. The lights were nonexistent. The air was full of smoke. And he watched women dancing half naked and realised for the first time that the skin on display didn't mean much to him. But the server behind the bar was wearing an open leather vest and had a scar through his eyebrow that made Steve’s pulse race. Steve had nearly come in his pants when the guy had winked at him.

That night was the first of a few things for Steve.

But the club is nothing like that now.

He dismounts the bike, hides the helmet under his seat and heads for the club. There aren't queues anymore. There are two burly guys in polo tops out the front but there's no rope. There's no list. Just a nod as they show Steve through the entrance, where he has to scan his driver's licence and fingerprints into a touch screen before he can get through the next set of doors. It flashes his name on the screen and Steve has a near heart attack at the thought that George will be on the phone to his mother in minutes. But he knows they use this system at a few places now, and he knows it's just going to be stored in a database for safekeeping unless something goes wrong and then drawn out like a lotto ball. It's not much more than a fancy head counter that encourages people to be on their best behavior.

Still. He makes a mental note to keep his fucking nose clean while he's here. No scene. No one will have to know. He's just here to set his mind at ease after spending time with Brock Rumlow. Needs to get him out from under his skin, and make sure nothing more awful than normal is happening here.

And it's working. Just being here. The lights are brighter. He can see the stage, can see a dancer, and she's beautiful. It looks to Steve's untrained eye like ballet, just with less clothes. Well. That's probably not even true, half the ballet he sees advertised lately has its dancers in just as small a costume as what is being displayed on stage. But it's a very different dance from what he remembers as a kid.

The tables fan around the stage for people to sit and watch the performance, the bar stretches long across the back of the room. The floors are hardwood, or some approximation of it. Bouncier maybe. There's plenty of smaller high tables with bar stools scattered around in between, and people are sitting, drinking, laughing. It's a good vibe actually.

If he didn't know who owned it, he might even come back with friends.

But he does know. And he can't forget that.

He's only going to look like a creeper, standing by the entrance and staring at everyone, so he makes his way to the bar to order a beer.

No, fuck it. He'll have a martini. Why not.

'Two olives?' he asks the bartender, who smiles and nods, and Steve smiles back. Because he's polite. And also the guy is cute. Though he's wearing a shirt under his vest, unfortunately.

'Two olives huh?' says a voice from behind Steve, smoky and soft, curling along his skin, 'Going all out tonight?'

Steve spins around and has to put a hand out to the bar to steady himself at what he finds. The voice belongs to a guy that shouldn't be real. A guy with long dark hair falling across his shoulders in waves. Eyes that catch the light and flash through shades of steel and blue. And cheekbones that shouldn't exist outside of a magazine. A guy that is staring at Steve and smiling. 'Um, hi,' Steve says, breathless and fumbling to sit back on the stool behind him, 'Uhh...' He's trying to speak but his brain won't cooperate.

'Oh, he's shy,' the guys says, stepping into Steve's space. He makes an elegant hand gesture to the bartender and then leans his body into the bar, 'Must be my lucky day.'

'No, not shy,' Steve says, swallowing and fighting for his composure, 'Not usually,' he clarifies, and manages to look the guy in the eye without falling off his seat.

'Oh, this little show is just for me?' the guy says, smiling wider as he looks Steve up and down.

'Well... you took me by surprise.'

‘Like I said,’ he says, shifting closer still, ‘Must be my lucky day.’

The bartender delivers not one but two martini’s to Steve at the bar and when he goes to pay his card is waved away.

‘I’ve got this,’ the guy says, picking up both of the glasses and then handing one to Steve. ‘I’m Bucky by the way.’

‘Steve,’ Steve says, taking the glass and then clinking against Bucky’s as he holds it out for a toast.

‘Have I seen you in here before, Steve?’ Bucky asks, taking a sip.

‘Is that your line?’ Steve asks with a smile.

Bucky coughs and brings a hand up to cover his mouth, ‘No, shit.’ And he coughs again at the mouthful he didn’t quite swallow right, but he’s laughing. ‘Fuck, I have better lines than that, thank you.’ 

Steve can believe it. He’s practically ready to fall at Bucky’s feet, and he hasn’t even had a drink yet.

‘That was actually a genuine question.’ And Steve can see the sincerity in Bucky’s smile, the way it reaches his eyes, the way he’s tilting his head as if trying to figure Steve out. ‘You seem familiar.’

And now that he’s said it, Steve can understand what he means… There's something about those eyes that sparks a memory in Steve, but he’s distracted by the tongue that’s darting out to wet Bucky’s plump pink lips, and the jawline that Steve maybe wants to bite into. And he lets his eyes wander down, following the lines of Bucky’s beautifully tailored suit, black with a textured pinstripe that he can’t really see in this lighting. It highlights strong shoulders and a broad chest, tapers down into a waist that Steve wouldn’t mind fitting his hands around, and then further down to thick thighs, thighs that Steve would quite happily bury his face between. 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Steve’s not normally this affected. He would think something’s in his drink, but he hasn’t had any yet.

‘Yeah, you too,’ Steve says after too long a pause. And the look on Bucky’s face is predatory. Steve is ready to put his glass down and leave to wherever Bucky wants to take him. Except a hand comes out of nowhere and lands on Bucky’s arm. A beautiful, delicate hand, porcelain skin and jet black nails.

‘James, we need you out back for a minute,’ says a voice Steve recognises. And oh fuck no. No, no, no. He looks up from the hand on Bucky’s arm to the face of the person it belongs to and Steve might as well be dead. You can open the ground up and bury him here. He’s done. ‘Stevie?’

It’s Natalia. And of course Steve knows why those steel blue eyes are so familiar. He dreamed of those eyes for months after his father died. Dreams that became nightmares.

Steve almost falls off his stool trying to back away from them both.

‘James Barnes?’ he says, as he clutches at the bar to keep his feet steady, takes another step back, ‘Jimmy?’

James is looking from Natalia to Steve and his face is twisted. ‘Little Stevie Rogers?’ James asks, voice gone high with disbelief, ‘You look… You got… when did you get so big?’

‘I grew up,’ Steve says. His voice is sharp as a knife, ‘Please excuse me, I have to go.’

‘Wait!’ James calls, stops Steve from turning with the way his voice breaks. Steve’s gaze is fixed to Bucky’s - James - there’s something, something in his eyes. There’s pain there. A pain he deserves. 

And Steve shakes his head and spins on his feet. Narrowly avoiding colliding with more stools, brushing past patrons and servers, and escaping into the open air. Nodding carefully at the bouncers as he passes them by to get to his bike. Running the last few feet and jumping on. Forgetting his helmet. Forgetting his rigid safety rules. He revs the engine and he peels onto the road. As fast as the bike will take him.

That was a mistake. That was a terrible, terrible mistake. 

And he wonders what it’s going to cost him. More than it already has. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two will be up next tuesday. 
> 
> Until then - come find me at [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue) on tumblr
> 
> Leave me some comments - I love to hear what you're thinking ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is left staring at empty space. Space that was not thirty seconds ago filled with a face more beautiful than he's seen in a long time. 
> 
> About fifteen years, give or take.
> 
> That feels like too long a time between visits for a person who takes up so much space in Bucky’s memories. But the collective amount of time he's ever spent in the presence of Steven Grant Rogers is less than Bucky's probably spent tying his shoes.
> 
> And every single minute left an imprint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags for this one.
> 
> And hold on.
> 
> (mini side note - gonna switch posting days to Sundays - I know this is early, but it just fits my work schedule so much better, apologies for this little surprise)
> 
> Again, big thanks to the beautiful [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for the brilliant beta and the much needed hand holding. And to [Ali (NoStringsOnMe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStringsOnMe/pseuds/NoStringsOnMe) my dearest, for listening to me endlessly talk about this plot and these boys. And still loving me anyway.

Bucky -

Bucky is left staring at empty space. Space that was not thirty seconds ago filled with a face more beautiful than he's seen in a long time. 

About fifteen years, give or take.

That feels like too long a time between visits for a person who takes up so much space in Bucky’s memories. But the collective amount of time he's ever spent in the presence of Steven Grant Rogers is less than Bucky's probably spent tying his shoes.

And every single minute left an imprint.

Now he doesn't know what to do. Does he go after him? Does he let him leave? Does he chase down everything he can find out about why he was here? What it could mean? Or does he forget it happened... because what if the answers are not what Bucky wants to hear.

'James?'

'Hmm...' Bucky turns to Nat, realising she's been trying to get his attention for a while.

'I really need you out the back.'

'What's going on?'

'It's Brock.'

Jesus. That man is a thorn in Bucky's fucking side. 'What, here?'

'Yeah, here. In the dressing rooms. If you want me not to kill him - you better get him the fuck out of there.'

It's tempting to just leave Brock's fate to Nat. He’s a disease. He's everything that's wrong with this business. With the legacy Bucky will be inheriting from his father.

He's everything that Bucky intends to change, once he's in charge.

But he's not in charge yet.

'Yeah okay,' he says, one last look in the direction Stevie had headed before turning back to Nat, 'Yeah okay, I'm coming.'

Nat keeps close but doesn't touch Bucky again. She does continue to side eye him until they get to the back of the club.

'Spit it out,' he says. Because fuck if he's going to try and guess what she's thinking (though he has a pretty good idea).

'What were you doing with Stevie Rogers?'

He wants to make a joke and say 'flirting' or maybe 'what wouldn't he do' but he's conscious that Nat has been in and out of the fallout from their family's drama from the beginning. And might not appreciate Steve being here. Might even be inclined to tell Bucky's father. And Bucky doesn't know what Steve was doing here. Doesn't know what he was doing with Bucky. If not recognising him was real or a lie (it felt real. The shock and pain and fury still there is those bright blue eyes, felt far too real to be a lie). He has no idea what kind of shit storm is about to pour down on him if the Rogers' are looking to start something.

He has no idea what he even wants the answer to be.

'Can we talk about it later?' is what he decides to go with, 'Lets deal with Brock first.'

'Is it something I need to be worried about?'

'No. It's not a problem.'

Nat gives him a look like she knows he's full of shit, but she lets it go. Brock is the priority. Bucky has told him fifty fucking times already that he's not welcome in the back room. That the space is for Red Room employees only.

And when they get into the dressing room, Brock is standing over Wanda with a red face and balled fists, and Bucky is ready to pull a fucking gun on him. He doesn't know what the great George Barnes sees in this maniac, but Bucky would happily shoot, dismember and bury him right here and now if he didn't know his father would probably find a way to make him pay for it.

Fathers are good at that. 

Bucky's is a master.

'The fuck, Rumlow?' Bucky takes a step forward but doesn't get too close. Brock might be an idiot but he can be dangerous. And he's too close to Wanda. Wanda who's barely come off stage, is clutching her sweater to her chest and has rage radiating off her in waves.

Brock acknowledges Bucky's entrance with a barely perceptible turn of his head. And Bucky doesn't have the authority to kill him, not yet, but he's in the club unsanctioned. He's been told before, that the dressing rooms are off limits - no matter how much of a VIP he thinks he is - and he's threatening one of Bucky's employees. That's enough in most places to get him a beating. And the attitude, the gall, to keep his back turned to Bucky, is a dick move.

'Wanda? Can you give Nat a hand with the set design for the party on Saturday?' Bucky says, keeping his voice calm and his hands loose.

'Yeah, boss, can do,' Wanda gets up from her chair and has to squeeze past Brock, who makes no attempt to move. She curls her mouth with distaste at the proximity and has to lean back, using her flexibility and core strength to keep balance as she does, to avoid his chest and arms, but she gets by and sighs gratefully at Bucky as she passes him, goes to stand behind Nat. The two of them look enough alike with their pale porcelain skin, dark red hair - Wanda's long and knotted in a bun, Nat's in a sharp bob at her chin - and deceptively delicate frames, they could be sisters.

Nat whispers to Wanda and pats her shoulder, pushing her gently out to the bar once she has her sweater on over her costume. Wanda escapes with one last narrow eyed death glare for Brock. 

'Always gotta be such a fucking cock blocker, Barnes,' Brock laughs, turning his body to Bucky now that Wanda isn't under him, 'Still so uptight, huh?'

  
  


'What are you doing here, Rumlow?' Bucky hates that fat, smug smile, 'I told you you're not allowed in here.'

'You don't get to tell me what to do, Barnes, your daddy still owns this place, and he wants me here.’

Bucky can’t refute that. It might not necessarily be true, but it's accurate enough. His father needs Brock around. Because Brock will do his dirty work. Work Bucky is interested in phasing out of the daily business. 

It’s something they can’t seem to stop being angry at each other about lately.

‘You can’t protect them from me forever, Barnes.’ Brock practically spits the words at Bucky.

And Bucky lets out an undignified bark of laughter. ‘Is that what you think, Rumlow,’ Bucky says, the laugh still shaking his shoulders, ‘I’m protecting _you_ from _them_ right now you fucking dipshit.’ And he can feel Nat moving behind him. But the last thing he needs with his father right now is another fight. He needs this to end quickly and painlessly. As amicably as possible. ‘Listen, I just need you to stay out of these rooms, stay away from the dancers, Brock, they don’t need people in here distracting them, getting in their way.’ 

‘What’s the matter, _Bucky,_ ’ Brock says, moving forward into Bucky’s space and attempting to loom over him, ‘You jealous?’

‘Are you drunk right now Rumlow?’ Bucky asks, fighting not to lean back and out of reach. Not wanting Brock to touch him.

‘Aww, what’s wrong baby, you miss my dick in you?’

And Bucky should know better than to let Brock get to him. He should. But he doesn’t. He snaps his arm out to jab Brock, hard and fast. A good, clean hit to the nose, and Brock sinks to the floor like the sack of shit that he is.

‘ _Fuck!’_

‘For fucks sake, James, I could have done that myself.’ Nat sidles up to Bucky’s side with her hands on her hips. ‘This is fucking amatuer hour, James Barnes.’

‘Sorry, I’m sorry. _Fuck!’_ Bucky needs to keep his shit together. What a mess. ‘Can you get Sam in here, we need to fix this.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ Nat flicks her gaze to Bucky before slapping him upside the head. ‘I should've just called him in the first place.’

He watches Nat spin on her ridiculous heels and walk back out to the bar, and narrowly avoids calling after her to say that she should have. Maybe then he would have had a chance to talk to Stevie… maybe if they had more time… Maybe he could have convinced him to stay. To hear Bucky out. 

To forgive him.

Maybe it’s better not to think about it.

And the decision is made for Bucky as any time to dwell disappears as soon as Sam saunters in looking like a bronze-brown God, pulling a navy blue hoodie on over his glitter covered abs, Nat passing him his med kit as he walks. Twin looks of annoyance directed solely at Bucky as they approach him.

'I was getting good tips, Barnes, this better be good.' Sam has his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed but Bucky doesn’t bite. Sam makes good tips every night. 

Instead he just nods his head to where Brock is still unconscious on the floor.

‘You need to learn to use your words, man,’ Sam says, crouching down to open his medical bag and get fingers on Brock's pulse, ‘What exactly do you want me to do with him?’

‘Keep him quiet and get him out of here?’ Bucky asks, and at Sam’s narrowed eyes, adds, ‘Please?’

‘Keep him unconscious?’ 

‘Yes, just… until he gets home. Or near home.’

‘You owe me so much beer for this,’ Sam says, shaking his head. But it’s Sam, and Bucky trusts Sam more than he trusts almost anyone. He gives Brock a shot of something from his kit and then lifts him with an ease that Bucky wants to whistle at. But again, it’s Sam. 

He's too much like a brother now. After everything they've been through.

The guys on the back door are still George's men - but most of the staff here will keep Bucky’s business to themselves, unless directly asked. So Bucky doesn’t question Sam’s decision to call them inside to help him get Brock into a car. They’ll drop him close enough to his apartment that he can wake up and have a foggy memory of what happened. Bucky knows it won't be enough.

He’s going to need to figure out how the fuck to explain this to his father when the time comes. 

\---

The time never comes. 

That should be a warning enough on its own. Two days go by and Bucky hears nothing. And when George Barnes calls Bucky home for a vodka and a chat he never mentions it once.

He does mention the upcoming meeting he has with Sarah Rogers though. And Bucky has to work not to fall off his fucking chair.

‘Sarah Rogers? You’re gonna meet with the Irish?’ Bucky asks, his hands balled into fists on his thighs under the table.

‘It’s time.’ His father says, sipping at his Beluga on ice and tapping his fingers on the table top. ‘I know you like her, and it’s a good connection for you, Jimmy.’

Bucky is a little stunned by that. ‘For me?’

‘Yes, for you,’ George says with a sigh, ‘I do actually want to leave you this business in better shape than I inherited it.’

‘And Sarah Rogers has agreed to this?’

‘It was her idea.’ 

Bucky finds that hard to believe. The loss of Joseph Rogers was a huge blow. And the Barnes’ part in it, however wrongly it was interpreted… especially after the way Stevie had run… Bucky was sure they would never be forgiven. 

But maybe times were changing. 

‘She needs a favour. We can get her licences, we can import the alcohol, those businesses of hers are falling down because they can't afford it on their own.’

Bucky nods along with his father. Doesn’t point out that the fact they can’t afford it is because George has been hiking the prices up to extort them for years.

‘And what do you get out of it?’Bucky asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer…

‘Cheaper shipments. If we can tie them together, a lot of the import costs can get halved.’ 

‘Why have you waited this long?’ Bucky does know the answer to this. But he’s mad enough to ask his father, because he wants to hear it from him. 

‘You know why.’

‘We could have reached out to them years ago.’

‘It would have looked weak.’

‘It was the right thing to do.’

‘Our strength is all we have!’ George slams his fist down on the table, leans over to close in on Bucky, ‘We have enemies, Jimmy, we can’t just turn our bellies up to every shitty little family wanting to make their mark in this city.’

‘Papa,’

‘Don’t papa me,’ George shakes his head, ‘Don’t give me that face, boy, we didn’t do anything wrong. It was an accident. It was a cruel accident, but we did nothing wrong.’

And Bucky’s fists are so tight his fingernails are cutting into his skin. He wants to shout. He wants to say that it wasn't an accident, that they did have a part in it. But he also wants it not to be true. 

‘Let the past be the past. And let her son be no part of it, Jimmy. He’s made a different life for himself. Let him live it away from here.’

God. A different life. What would that even be like. Stevie, he’d looked unrecognisable. So much bigger, Jesus, taller than Bucky almost. Broader across the chest. When had that even happened? The last time he’d seen him he’d been a weed. The wind would have knocked him over. 

He looked good. Same pale skin, but rosy cheeked, enough sun to have streaked his hair blonder, and his eyes. Well his eyes had been the same.

‘What does he do now?’ Bucky asks, knowing it's a mistake as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

‘Let it go,’ his father says. And that will be all he’ll say. And Bucky will be left in the dark as always. Fighting for the right to be anything more than a stupid boy to his father. Too reckless. Too soft. 

Too blinded by a pair of bright blue eyes. 

He doesn’t let it go though. 

Bucky goes through the logs of the night Stevie came to the red room. Finds his licence and his address. Crown Heights. Jesus, that's so fucking close. This whole time, all these years, he’s been so fucking close. 

And he googles him. 

There’s not much. There’s a few Steve Rogers but their photos dismiss them right away. He’s nowhere on facebook or any of the socials. Which makes sense. For the same reasons Bucky isn’t. Too public. Too accessible. But there is a listing for a Steve G Rogers that comes up on a website as a hit. And when Bucky clicks in, it’s a hospital, New York Methodist. And Steve is listed as a staff member. There’s no photo, but there’s a description - Registered Nurse - Paediatrics. And that’s gotta be him. Of course it fucking is. 

God. Bucky wants to throw his computer out of the window. He wants to go to sleep and wake up with the life of a man who could just go visit a nurse at the hospital if he felt like it, bring him coffee, take him out. 

Fall in love. 

But Bucky can’t do that. Bucky’s life isn’t like that. And Steve is out of this life. Like Bucky’s father said. It would be cruel to drag him back in. 

And before Bucky can grow too worried about the lack of fallout from Brock’s visit, it’s the weekend. And George has gone over this meeting with Bucky twenty goddamn times so far already. They’re standing in the foyer and Bucky is really making an effort to be good, to not take off and get in the car and ignore every bullshit thing that his father says to him.

‘I want you there, but let me do the talking.’

‘Yes Papa.’

‘And Brock will be there.’

‘I know this.’ He fucking knows Brock will be there, he’s been subtly shitting his pants about it for a week now.

‘I know you know, just listen,’ George has his hands up for silence and Bucky backs down, ‘Were going to be civil, we’re going to be gracious. We’re going to go to as low a price as we give the Barton’s but no less.’ 

Bucky nods along.

‘And we’re going to ask for no less than half of the shipment schedule.’

‘Yes, papa,’ Bucky finally says with a laugh. Because they’ve been through this so many times it's ridiculous, But it’s endearing, how much this means to his father. And he’s proud that they’re doing this. No matter how long overdue it might be.

‘Alright alright,’ George turns to Nat, Nat who’s been in the shadows for the whole conversation, who steps forward when his father’s hand is waved. ‘Nat, get the car we’re ready.’

‘Da,’ Nat says with a nod, and disappears to get it sorted. She comes back within a minute to wave them outside and into the driveway. They step up to the car as it approaches. Pietro is driving, which means George is taking this seriously. And Nat opens the door for Bucky’s father, closing it behind him. Gets in the front seat as Bucky lets himself in on the other side at the rear. 

He fantasises about what will happen when he takes over. When Natalia will finally never have to open a door for anyone ever again. 

‘Sarah will have Dum Dum and Falsworth with her,’ Nat says, turning in her seat from the front and looking back at Bucky, ‘You and I will flank George, and Rumlow might have his new guy Rollins with him.’

‘Why does Dum Dum sound familiar?’ Bucky asks, and his father scoffs.

‘Sarah’s had those Irish assholes with her from before Joe got offed,’ George says, laughing at himself and not even looking at Bucky.

Nat gives him a look that his father can’t see. And Bucky remembers that Nat and Dum Dum used to keep in touch, sometimes ran messages back and forth when the fallout was at its worst.

Nat always liked the Rogers family. Bucky should have asked her to talk about it more, but she never would.

Nobody would talk about them with Bucky. 

It doesn’t take long to pull up to the restaurant where the discussions have been decided to take place. It’s near the corner of Lefferts and Nostrand Ave; neutral territory. Sarah Rogers is there when Bucky and his father arrive. Already waiting, sitting at the round table of the restaurant and sipping what's probably a cup of tea. And her men are around her. Two, just as Nat described. Her driver must be in the car still. George has Bucky and Nat to either side of him as he walks in and Rumlow has yet to arrive.

Bucky doesn't like it.

The restaurant is otherwise empty. The staff have cleared out to give them privacy. Even neutral as this place is, Sarah has influence. The crime rate in East Flatbush has basically halved since Sarah took over, and that stretches out to the surrounding Boroughs. People appreciate that. Appreciate the lack of protection money they have to pay out, the uptake in patronage now that it's all more respectable. Bucky thinks all the families could learn a thing or two about business from Sarah Rogers.

And despite the lack of their emissary, they don’t hesitate. George takes the lead, and Bucky stays a step behind to his right. Nat two steps behind on his left. Approaching the table at a good speed. But it's awkward. There's no getting around that. Without Rumlow there they don't know how to start. Who offers the first words. Does Bucky's father attempt to shake Sarah's hand, even knowing what they did to her?

Do they wait and expect Sarah to be braver and offer hers instead?

In the end Sarah Rogers does what she always does. She takes charge, standing from her seat and offering George her hand to shake.

'George Barnes,' She says, with the lilting remainder of that Irish accent, coloured by a life lived mostly in Brooklyn, 'It's been a long time.'

'It's good to see you, Sarah,' George says, shaking her offered hand, a careful but steady movement. And then lets it go to sit at the seat opposite Sarah. It's a small table and the place settings have been removed. They won't be sharing a meal, breaking bread together. Dum Dum and Falsworth (Bucky has no idea who is who) stand behind where Sarah sits, either side, guns at their hips, but their faces are passive. Their presence is for safety. They're not a threat.

Nat and Bucky remain standing behind George, no seats at the table. And Bucky feels more comfortable there to be honest. He has no idea what he would say if he had to try and make conversation.

'Thank you for meeting with me, George, I understand that this is a little unusual.'

'It's my pleasure, Sarah, honestly.'

'Thank you, George, that being said. I'm here to talk business. I hope you can appreciate that.'

'I can,' George says, hint of a smile on his lips. 'Maybe we should get right to the point, save this awkwardness for another time.'

One of Sarah’s boys snorts a laugh at that and then tries to bite back his smile when Sarah briefly glances back at him with a scowl.

Sarah turns back to George and squares her shoulders. 'I want in on your licenses,' she puts fingertips to the rim of her teacup but keeps her eyes on George, 'I want you to give us the same prices and red tape waiving that you would give your own families.'

And Bucky knows George was ready for it, but his father still bristles at the tone, Bucky can see it in the way his shoulders tighten. His lips purse. 'That's a big favour, Sarah.'

'I know. And I'm prepared to offer you the compensation it deserves.'

'Let me decide that,' George says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. Bucky sees Sarah's men shift their stance slightly.

'I'm prepared to offer you half of my import schedule. You could bring your vodka and your cigars in with my shipments.'

'What makes you think I even need that, Sarah.'

Bucky sets his own stance more alert at that. It's just business, he knows that, but it's harsh. It's harsher than she deserves. They should have come crawling back to her on their knees, not spitting. Not like this.

'I know you've been having some trouble with your shipments lately, George, you can't pretend you haven't.'

'It's in the process of getting sorted, Sarah. I don't need you.'

'George, don't insult me. I know you do.'

Nat hasn't moved or even blinked since they've come in. But something changes and Bucky can feel it. The way her posture goes slack. The way she shifts her feet slightly into a more even weight distribution.

Something's wrong.

Bucky's father hasn't noticed. He's busy trying to shakedown the negotiation. 'If I did decide to take some of your shipment space, how would you get it to me.'

'We would have to work more closely together-' Sarah starts, and Bucky is sure she's going to offer Rumlow as a go between. But Rumlow isn't here. And Nat has moved now, she has spread her feet. her hands are loose at her sides, but her fingers twitch. Bucky can't keep still any longer. He looks over at Nat and she flicks her eyes to him. Widens them at him. Gestures her head almost imperceptibly at the entrance and Bucky can't ignore that.

Something is definitely wrong.

'I wanted to-' Sarah goes to continue, but Bucky holds a hand up to her. And she stops. And her men step forward with hands to their guns.

Bucky has his free and the safety off before they do. But he turns to point it at the door. 'Get down!' he yells at the room, and he pulls his father with him as he squats to the ground. So they're both low and covered when the first spray of bullets hits.

Nat has jumped behind a table and is flipping it to use as cover, she rolls it in front of Bucky and George and George is swearing, but Bucky is trying to listen. At least two different machine guns, and something bigger, heavier, ripping huge chunks out of the walls of the restaurant. But it's too much. It's all too much. And he doesn't know how to get them out of here when the front is overrun with raining gunfire.

He turns to evaluate the rest of the room and sees one of Sarah's men on the ground. His mustache is sprayed with blood. His hat is gone and half his head is missing. Six feet behind him, the other man has Sarah wrapped in his arms. And there's blood, but he’s not panicking, he’s looking towards the kitchens and he’s frozen.

Bucky looks back at Nat who's covering George, her gun drawn and ready but they have nothing to shoot at. There's too much heavy fire. And it's not stopping.

'Nat! He shouts over the deafening rain of bullets, 'Nat, keep him covered!'

Nat looks at him, looks over at Sarah and her man crouched behind a table but not moving. And she nods.

It's all Bucky needs, he turns and throws his body as far as he can go, rolls to a stop and pulls himself to where they are. 'How do we get out of here?' he shouts, 'I can help you!' he's screaming it at the man with Sarah in his arms, begging him not to be stubborn. And the man looks at Bucky and nods. 

'There's a back way,' the man says, accent lilting like Sarah's. He's been hit too, his shoulder is bleeding, but he lifts Sarah and looks Bucky in the eye, ‘Can you cover us?’

Bucky nods. Taking his cue from Nat, Bucky lifts a table and uses it like a shield, keeps them behind him as they make their way to the kitchen. Pieces of the table are flying off as the bullets smack into it. Some of the bullets break through the wood, one grazes past Bucky's cheek, but the middle of the table is dense where the central leg is placed. Most of the damage is at the circumference.

And once they get to the kitchens the tiled walls give them a respite. The noise is less oppressive. They keep down, and the Irishman puts Sarah on the ground to look her over. She's breathing.

'Sarah!' The man holds a finger to her pulse, 'We need to get you to a hospital.'

She's looking up at them, and her eyes are clear. But there's a hole in her chest. A hole that’s jagged and angry. Bucky can see bone. He can see too much damage. The bullet wound is too big. It's too big...

And when she lifts a hand, it's Bucky's face she cups, her other hand is gripping her man's hand as he tries to cover the wound. Tries to press her flesh back into place, tries to stop the blood.

'I should have listened to Winnie,' she says, breath rattling, staring into Bucky's eyes. 'We shouldn't have kept you apart.'

Bucky can’t answer her. He can’t speak, he’s just staring down at her. Watching her as she coughs, blood spraying down her chin. Breath wheezing, slowing. And then it stops. And none of his questions will matter now. 

'No!' Her man is yelling. 'Sarah!' but her eyes have glassed over. And the hand on Bucky's cheek falls to her side.

An explosion from the street steals their attention and they don’t even have time to mourn. They have to get out of here. Bucky leaves Sarah’s side to go to the kitchen doors, to look back for Nat and sees her still covering his father. He needs to get them to come this way.

He looks back at Sarah on the floor. Her man is as white as a sheet, kneeling beside her, blood soaking into his pants. 'You should go,' Bucky says, 'I need to get papa and Nat.'

The man nods. 'I've got to get her to a hospital.'

And Bucky understands it. The man has to do everything he can. He nods in reply. Watches him pick Sarah up into his arms. So much smaller like this than in life. He watches them exit through a trick backdoor to the restaurant that Bucky didn't even know about. 

Seems like the people shooting at them must not know about it either. There’s no fire on the other side of that door. Bucky needs to hurry Nat and his father back here so they can get out too. God knows what's happened to Pietro and the car.

But when he turns, Nat has made it to the kitchen, dragging Bucky's father beside her.

'James.'

'Nat!' He rushes to her. She's bleeding. 'Nat, fuck _,'_ and he goes to take his father, to help him up. But Nat has tears streaming down her face, blood welling at her side, and his father... His father is not moving.

Nat collapses on the ground and Bucky grabs at his papa, grabs at him and brings him to his chest. But there's nothing. His eyes are open but cold. Fixed. Staring at Bucky. And Bucky looks down to the hole in his fathers chest. Just like Sarah's.

'The bullet went straight through me James.' Nat is staring down at his father, and then looks up at Bucky. She's shaking. She's losing blood. 'It went straight through me.'

Bucky lets his father fall from his arms. He can't help him now. But Nat needs him, she’s bleeding. A through and through is better than trying to fish out bullet fragments, but it’s a big hole, it’s a lot of blood. And they can't go to a hospital.

They have no car. They have an exit but they have to go _now_. They have to go somewhere on foot. It’s too far to get back to Sam. But they have one option. Crown Heights is only a few blocks away. Close enough that Bucky can pretty much carry her there...

Sarah's last words are echoing in his ears, that she should have listened to Winnie, his mother.

That they shouldn't have kept them apart.

And Bucky knows where he needs to go.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that was rough. It's all going to get better from here, I promise.
> 
> And it does have a happy ending.
> 
> I love you all.
> 
> come find me at [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue) on tumblr
> 
> And absolutely you can scream at me in the comments - I deserve it this week. ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has been on shift for what feels like an uninterrupted week. A week of feeling like a fourteen year old kid again. Too small to stand up to the assholes who liked to push him around, lungs too tight to ever really keep up with the other kids. And mesmerized by a pair of blue grey eyes... He kicks himself over and over for going to that stupid club. Knows it was wrong. Knew it at the time and did it anyway. The story of Steve's fucking life to date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> a short flashback, questions answered, and some angst.
> 
> a lot actually.
> 
> Come yell at me in the comments.
> 
> Again, big thanks to the gorgeous [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for the brilliant beta and the much needed hand holding. To [Ali (NoStringsOnMe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStringsOnMe/pseuds/NoStringsOnMe) my dearest, for being the most beautiful sounding board. And my ride or die [Kel (Kalee60)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60) for the love and support. Always.

###  Fifteen Years Earlier...

Steve sits at the top of the stairwell and contemplates throwing himself down it. Except he can only imagine that would make those assholes laugh. And his ma would kill him. And his da would just be more disappointed than ever. No son of Joseph Rogers would ever be so lazy, so chicken shit, as to throw himself down a flight of stairs, when he could fight his way out of a problem.

'Hey.'

Steve nearly falls, jumps ten feet out of his skin, at the sound of a voice behind him. And when he turns, the boy, the voice, is right behind him, leaning back against the brick of the stairwell, arms crossed, cigarette hanging from his lips, hair fluffed atop his head like the boys from the magazines at the doctors office. And Steve is torn between throwing himself down the stairs for real, or sitting frozen as he is, just to keep watching this boy for as long as fate will let him.

'Don't listen to those fuckers,' says the boy, smiling around his smoke, 'Bunch of sick cunts, get their kicks from pushing freshmen around.'

Steve blinks at that, he hears that word a lot, from his da's men. Hasn't heard it said at school before. But then, he supposes, he's at high school now. Cunt is probably nothing new around here.

'You okay?' the boy asks, and Steve can tell he's been staring too long. The boy is shifting his feet. Has an eyebrow raised. Probably thinks Steve is the worst kind of loser. He needs to answer, say something,  _ Jesus _ .

'Yeah,' he finally sighs out, breathless, no backpack, no inhaler, probably on the cusp of another attack (he's been so sick, missed so much school, it was bound to happen). 'I just... should've seen it coming.'

'Came at you from behind,' the boy drags on his smoke, breathes that fire through the paper and into his lungs while Steve watches, fascinated, 'Don't see that coming. Not on your first day.'

'How do you know it's my first day?' Steve asks, forgets to be worried that his voice is starting to break, that his lungs are tight enough to pop.

'I know things.' He grips the cigarette between his finger and thumb, stubs it against the wall and flicks it to the ground. Then he reaches back to pull something from his back pocket. A crumpled piece of paper.  _ Steve's _ crumpled piece of paper. 'I know you drew this,' he says, flattening out the sketch and stepping away from the wall to hand it to Steve. 'It's good.'

Steve takes the sketch and glances at it before folding it up and shoving it back into his own pocket. 'It's just junk.'

'Doesn't look like junk.' The boy takes another step closer and then sits himself down next to Steve. 'Looks like shit I've seen in a museum.'

'Oh, you've been to a museum?' Steve says, the words shooting out of his mouth before he can hold them back.

But the boy only laughs. Holds his hands up like Steve's gonna throw a punch. 'Okay, okay, no need to be rude. I'm just here to give you back your picture, make sure you're not dead, you know. Just being a good guy.'

'Why?'

'I dunno. Cause it's a good picture I guess.'

It's a picture of Steve's ma. Her hands. The way her hands can make something boring into something beautiful. Steve loves that about her hands. 'Thanks,' Steve says after a beat too long. But the boy doesn't complain. Just knocks Steve with his shoulder.

'You need to go get your shit back?' he asks.

Steve nods.

'Come on, I'll walk with you.' And he hauls Steve up by the elbow. 'I've been looking for a good excuse to give that asshole Hodge a nice shiner for weeks now.'

It makes Steve laugh, but it mostly makes him not mind so much that someone has to walk him back to his backpack, that had been strewn across the hallway, its contents tossed onto the floor. Only when he gets there the bag is packed back up. Two other boys - Juniors, just like his new friend - are holding it, waiting for this boy and Steve like guard dogs. And the boy crosses the hall to them from the stairwell, to take the bag and shoo them off with a nod.

The assholes who jumped Steve are long gone. But they'll be back. Steve just has to be ready for them next time. That's all.

The boy passes Steve's bag to him and their hands touch, fingers brushing briefly against each other, Steve pulling back with a start, hoping it doesn't get him into more trouble. But the boy is only smiling down at him. 'I wanna see some more of those pictures sometime, okay, kid?'

'Stevie,' Steve says, 'I'm Stevie,' hoping it's okay to tell this guy his name. Hoping that's not breaking some dumb rule.

'Jimmy,' the guy says, 'Good to meet you, Stevie.'

'And you,' Steve says. But Jimmy's friends are calling back to him, and he waves at Steve, nods his head, and then he's turning away. And then he's gone.

Steve never gets jumped by those assholes again.

He does see Jimmy again though. They steal away from their respective fifth periods to share cigarettes in the stairwell. Though Jimmy will only let Steve have one if he has his inhaler in his pocket. And Steve would normally bluster and argue his way out of it, but something about the way Jimmy's blue-grey eyes go wide, something about the way his smile turns down, like he's worried, like it makes him sad, has Steve rolling his own eyes and pulling the inhaler from his backpack, shoving it into his pocket with an exaggerated sigh to make Jimmy smile again.

There's something about the way Jimmy's lips fit around his cigarette, something about the way the smoke curls out through their softness to lift to the ceiling, something about the way his so very faintly clipped accent reminds Steve that he's not the only one who's parents weren't born here, that makes Steve want to sit out in that stairwell with Jimmy for hours.

But they never have hours.

They always have to rush away.

It's a long time before they start to talk about their fathers. But they do. Jimmy doesn't like his father much, and Steve can relate though they never really say what they mean. Steve can tell. Steve knows why he can't talk about his da's business. He wonders if it's the same for Jimmy. There are enough families around Flatbush, it's not crazy to think that Jimmy's da could be like Steve's. Only they never talk about it.

Until one day they do.

'I wish I could kill him sometimes, Stevie. There's enough fucking guns in our house I could just point one right in his face while he's sleeping.'

'That's one way to do it,' Steve says. He likes to just indulge this rhetoric facetiously, eventually it will make Jimmy laugh. And it's always Steve's mission to get Jimmy laughing. It hurts Steve's heart to see him sad.

'I mean it though, Stevie. He's got this meeting on the weekend, at some warehouse, and he's taking Becca. Can you fucking believe that?'

And Steve shifts at that, pushes off from the wall to look back at Jimmy, 'Why would he take Becca?'

'Thinks she might be a good distraction, apparently.'

'No, Becca can't be much older than me, you said she's a sophomore.'

'She's fifteen, Stevie,' Jimmy says, balling his hands into fists at his sides, 'And he wants to take her to this meeting to show her off like a piece of meat.'

Steve doesn't get Jimmy to laugh that day. He does get him to smile though. Sketches a picture of Jimmy flipping the bird. Tells him to put it under his da's pillow.

And when Steve overhears his own parents talking. Overhears his da, so upset that George Barnes had brought his kid to the meet. Just a  _ kid _ , his da keeps saying, what was this business coming to when they had to use their  _ kids _ as collateral... Steve understands that of course their fathers are both in the business. Of course nothing can ever just go right for little Stevie Rogers. He hears his Da say that they need to make an example. That they can't let that slide. That he needs to organise a meeting with the other families. And Steve panics.

What if something really happens to Jimmy's da. Because of Steve's own father? He might never forgive him.

'Jimmy,' Steve says to him, early the next day, well before they usually meet. Jimmy looks put out. He was talking to a girl, an older girl, Steve doesn't know, but this is important, this can't wait. 'Jimmy, can I talk to ye, please?'

'Yeah, Stevie, yeah, just, one minute.' And he whispers something to his girl, who nods at him, doesn't speak, just walks away without looking back. 'Okay, come on.' Jimmy leads Steve back to their spot in the stairwell, closing the door behind him and then rounding on him. 'Are you okay? What's happened?'

'No, nothing, I, nothing yet...' And Steve is wringing his hands. 'I ah... my da is...'

'Did he hurt you?' Jimmy says quietly, but furiously, fire in his eyes, 'What did he do?'

'No he didn't, he wouldn't,' Steve says, wanting Jimmy to stay close, but terrified of what he has to say. 'He's... he was there, the other day, when your dad took Becca to that meeting, and he seemed worried. That some of the other families hadn't liked it.' And Steve can hear the way his voice is too high, too breathless, but he needs to just get the words out, 'Is there a way you could get him to lay low for a while or to apologise?'

Jimmy is looking down at Steve like he has two heads. 'Are you kidding me?'

'No, Jimmy, please don't be mad.'

'I'm not mad Stevie, but fuck, I can't. He doesn't listen to me about anything. How does your dad even know?'

'I can't...' Steve shouldn't say. He shouldn't, but Jimmy is looking at him with those sad eyes and the words just come like they always do, 'Promise you won't hurt him.'

'I would never, Stevie, I promise you.'

And Steve believes him, of course he believes his friend. 'Joseph Rogers.'

But when Jimmy pulls immediately away, Steve knows he's made a mistake. 'Your da is  _ Joseph Rogers _ ?'

Steve wants to be frozen, wants to run away, but his body betrays him, his head is nodding.

'Fuck, Stevie.  _ Fuck _ .'

And Steve does flinch then at the venom in Jimmy's voice.

'No, hey,' Jimmy says, reaching out a hand, 'Hey, no, don't worry. It's gonna be okay. I'm gonna take care of everything, okay?' And he's looking down at Steve with those wide eyes. His fingers land on Steve's arm. So warm.

Steve can only nod again. Jimmy will know what to do. He always does. It'll be fine.

Everything will be fine.

Steve waits with his ma at the dinner table that night, waits and waits, but his da never comes home. And when the phone rings... When the phone rings he knows. When his ma collapses on the green tiles of their kitchen floor; he knows.

He should've never trusted Jimmy. He should've never let those eyes fool him.

Steve  _ should  _ have thrown himself down the stairs that day. It would have been better for everybody.

  
  


###  Present Day

Steve has been on shift for what feels like an uninterrupted week. A week of feeling like a fourteen year old kid again. Too small to stand up to the assholes who liked to push him around, lungs too tight to ever really keep up with the other kids. And mesmerized by a pair of blue grey eyes... He kicks himself over and over for going to that stupid club. Knows it was wrong. Knew it at the time and did it anyway. The story of Steve's fucking life to date.

He should know to never go with his gut. It can't be trusted.

He's on his way home on the bike, traffic is a shit as ever. And he just needs a shower. Needs to sleep for a good ten hours. Needs a hot meal and cup of tea and  _ Jesus _ , he might even spike it, give himself the good old Sarah Rogers, hot toddy special.

New York in the winter can be so bleak. And though Steve usually loves the ice, loves the way it makes his bike seem just that bit more dangerous, loves the way it bites into his bones, so much bigger and meatier now than they ever were when he was a kid; today it feels angry. Today it feels oppressive. Today he just wants to escape it and be warm.

And when he stores his bike and grabs his stuff from under the seat, he unlocks his phone to twelve missed calls. All from an unknown number.

'What the fuck?' he says under his breath, dialing it immediately. Suddenly feeling nauseous.

But nobody picks up and it runs right through.

So the first thing he does is call his ma's phone. And it goes to voicemail.

'Ma, ring me back when you get this, yeah? Just checking in. Love you.'

He doesn't like this weight in his stomach. It feels too familiar, it feels too much like a memory he's had buried for years.

Steve rushes up the stairs to his apartment and he has his key out, ready to slide it into the lock, when he notices the blood on the door handle. Just a smear. A thumbprint. But it's enough for that weight to solidify. For it to fill him with a terrible feeling. He doesn't have a gun. Never has had. Hates them. Hates what they do.

But he almost wishes he had one at this moment...

He takes a breath, steels himself, and pushes the door open. Whatever is waiting for him on the other side, he has his phone open and in his hand, ready to press dial on nine-one-one. He keeps his steps light, makes as little noise as possible. And he takes three steps into his living room.

He hears it then. Coming from the bathroom. small, tinkering noises. Someone is definitely here.

'I'm calling the police!' he says holding his phone up, but freezes with his finger over the button when he hears a voice call out. 

'Stevie?'

And he doesn't know whether to dial or not when the owner of that voice steps out of the bathroom, white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, black suit pants, absolutely covered in blood.

'Jimmy,' Steve says on a breath. He's frozen. His phone in hand, his mouth hanging open. Eyes looking Jimmy up and down, looking for some injury, looking for the source of all that bleeding. But it isn't James. It's not his blood. He wouldn't be standing if it was. 'What the fuck,' he finally manages to say. Voice too high. Lungs too tight. Fourteen years old all over again and helpless to do what he should. Helpless to run away from this danger.

'Stevie,' Jimmy is standing back, he has his hands out to Steve, and his face is drawn, pale, way too pale, and his eyes are red rimmed, his arms are shaking, 'Stevie, I'm not here to hurt you, I swear to god, I'm here... I'm here...'

And whatever it is he's here for he can't find the words to say.

'Jimmy, what happened?' Steve asks, moving slowly forward. The only way his traitorous feet will carry him, 'What did you do.'

'I didn't... I couldn't...' Jimmy starts, but his face crumples, and he puts his head in his hands, smearing blood all over his face as he pulls them up and into his hair. 'It's Nat.' he says, muffled, staring down at the floor, 'She needs your help.'

At that admission, Steve's steps get faster. Jimmy is staring down at something on the bathroom floor, and if it's Natalia, if that's the source of the blood, then Steve doesn't have a lot of time.

And when he gets to the door and looks down, pushes past James to see inside, there is Natalia Romanova, lying on his black and white checkerboard bathroom tiles, and bleeding out at his feet.

'Jesus, what the fuck, Jimmy!' Steve says, rushing back and pushing past him again to get into his bedroom and grab his kit from the closet, taking two giant steps back into the bathroom and squatting down to the floor by Nat. 'Why are you not at a hospital!'

'It's bad. It's bad. Stevie, it's so bad.' Jimmy has crouched next to him, and Steve pushes him back out of the way.

'Give me some space.' Steve leans down and lies Nat out flat on the floor. She's conscious, he doesn't know how but she is, staring up at him with those inscrutable eyes. 'Nat, I'm going to have to remove some of your suit to see where all this blood is coming from,' he says to her gently. She nods, puts a hand to her side.

'It's there,' James is saying, 'In her left side, a through and through, but they must have been using some kind of armor piercing rounds. It went straight through her and int-' James cuts himself off and puts a hand over his mouth.

But Steve doesn't have time to ask who it landed in. He needs to stop the bleeding. He needs to see what the bullet has hit on its way through. He rips through Natalia's shirt and finds the hole immediately. It's big, but it's clean, not too much tearing, and Steve is going to be able to suture it if he can stop the bleeding. So he does that first, packs it back and front with gauze and puts pressure with the heel of his hand on either side.

'How long ago did this happen?' Steve asks.

'Thirty minutes,' James says from over his shoulder.

'You need a hospital.' Steve says, knowing it's going to fall on deaf ears. He needs to clean it. But he needs to stop the bleeding first. 'James, get me ice packs from the freezer, two if you can find them, and I need a towel from the rack there, hand it to me.' Steve holds his hand out and James passes it to him, Steve folds it up and puts it under Natalia's hips to elevate the wound. He keeps pressure as tight as he can without breaking anything, and when James comes back with the ice packs, he puts one on either side. 'This is going to help it clot. Then I need to clean it. Then I'll need to stitch it.'

Steve can see James nodding in his peripheral. Natalia is watching him steadily, not moving. The wound looks low enough that it's missed her kidney, and if it has hit intestine, well, they'll likely heal okay on their own after a few days. Depending on the level of damage.

'You're lucky,' he says looking down at her, this woman he hardly knows but for angry, quiet meetings with his ma, hushed, late night car rides with Dum Dum and Monty, and the three very memorable times he's seen her dance. Natalia is a force to be reckoned with. If anybody could survive being shot it would be her. 'This might have actually missed anything too critical.' But Natalia is looking up at him and he doesn't see relief, or pain, or even fear. He sees despair.

And the weight in his belly is back.

'I'm going to be sitting here with you like this for at least five more minutes,' Steve says, turning his head to look at James, a picture of abject terror, covered in blood, sweat and tears, 'You need to tell me what happened. Everything.'

'Stevie-'

'It's Steve.' Steve cuts him off, voice finally finding its depth, but still sharp, 'It's just Steve now.'

'Steve, I. We....' James is looking down at Natalia and he's afraid. 'I have to tell you something, but promise me' - and he looks at Steve, stares into his eyes, sitting on the lip of Steve's bath tub, elbows on his knees, his face inches from Steve's like this - 'promise me that you won't hurt her.'

Steve swallows but he nods his head. Whatever it is. He doesn't have it in him to hurt anybody. He never has. He might decide to call the police after all. But he would never hurt her.

'It's... Steve, it's... we had a meeting. Papa, he had a meeting with Brock and-'

'Ma.' Steve says. His ma.

They had that stupid meeting with George Barnes, she hadn't even told him it was really going ahead. He hadn't asked.

He looks back up at James, who flinches back at the look on Steve's face. Steve still has his hands on Nat, is keeping the pressure on, is keeping his hands steady. But his heart is racing. His mind is spinning. His hands can do this without instruction, they're on autopilot, and he's staring at James and he can't move. Can't think.

'Yeah,' James whispers, his breath heavy, 'With your ma.' And when James' voice breaks on the last word Steve wants to break too. He feels his whole body start to collapse. Feels everything around him start to fade to black. 'Steve, Stevie no. Stay with me.' James' voice is louder, faster, frantic. 'I tried, I tried to save her, tried to save them but there was too much, it was too much.'

Steve is leaning back from Natalia's body, his hands coming away from where they need to keep pressure but he can't... he can't... 'Jimmy,' he tries to focus, tries to look at James, but his vision is blurred, 'Jimmy what did you do?'

'It wasn't me, it wasn't us this time Jimmy I swear, it wasn't us. They shot papa, right through Nat, they shot him, and your man, and your ma, but he's taking her to a hospital, I don't know which one, Stevie, I don't know.'

Steve pulls his phone free of his pocket and looks down at the missed calls. All in the fifteen minutes while he was packing his bike and riding home from work. He missed them all.

And James is crying again, but he's taken over from where Steve has sat back. James has his hands on Natalia's stomach and back. And Steve should check the bleeding, should clean it. Needs to suture them... but he can't move. He doesn't... he doesn't know what to do...

'Steve, Stevie,' Natalia is calling to him softly, 'It was never James. All those years ago. You should know that now.'

Steve doesn't have the capacity to even understand what she's saying. He must be looking at her like she's crazy, like he's crazy, because she tries to sit up but James pushes her back down.

'Don't move Nat. Keep still, just keep still,' James is saying to her.

'He never meant for George to find that picture. It was my fault.'

'Nat, shush, please lie back,' James is pushing her down, but even shot as she is, bleeding all over Steve's bathroom floor, Natalia is stronger than she looks.

'The bleeding has stopped James, I'm okay,' Natalia is pushing Jimmy back, 'Steve, I was teasing him about it, I picked it up when it fell from his pocket and I teased him about it. It was never James' fault that George found it.' Natalia puts her elbows under her, pushes up to look right into Steve's eyes, 'It wasn't James fault, what happened to your father.'

'Nat-' James starts, but Steve interrupts him.

'If James hadn't told them what I told him, if he'd kept that secret like he promised, we wouldn't be here.' Steve says, staring down between James and Natalia, memories of that night flooding back, a parallel to this feeling in his gut, the pain. And he knows he shouldn't, he has something else to be worried about now, but his mind latches to this fragment and clutches at it, desperate to spill hate. 'He used me. He poisoned my words, turned them against us.'

He wants James to be angry, wants to lash out at him, to hit, kick, punch, stab, hurt him somehow, but James is staring at him open mouthed. In shock.

'Stevie... what?'

'I told you what da had said to  _ help  _ you to help your father and you took my kindness and you used it to  _ kill  _ him.' Steve is spitting the words at Jimmy, and James is trying to hold Natalia down, trying to keep the pressure on, but he's leaning toward Steve too, not away. Not trying to get away.

'Stevie, there's no way,' Jimmy's words are quiet but fierce, 'I would have  _ never.' _

And Steve doesn't believe him, shouldn't believe him except... Except Jimmy has tears in his eyes, but that fire Steve knows, that fire he remembers is there, and it's real, and it's directed at Steve with passion.

'I would have  _ never  _ told him what you told me Stevie, I  _ promised  _ you.'

'But how...' Steve looks down at Natalia and the look on her face. The sorrow. The guilt...

They lied to them.

All these years they lied...

'Is that what you thought? That I betrayed you?' Jimmy looks down at Natalia, 'Is that what you told him?'

'George made us swear to never tell you.' Natalia is looking at Jimmy, and Steve can see her struggling to wrap the elastic bandages around herself. But still he can't move. He needs to call Monty, or Dum Dum...  _ Jesus _ , or Brock.

Brock.

'Who did this?' Steve asks, paying no mind to Jimmy and Natalia as they whisper angry words back and forth, 'Tell me.'

'We don't know,' Jimmy says, and he's sitting back too. Collapsing back from Natalia and resting his back against the tub. 'But Brock never showed.'

Steve's stomach roils. He pushes himself up awkwardly, trying to move quicker than his body is capable, stepping over Natalia to rush towards the toilet and vomit. Hot angry bile is all that’s left in him now, and it comes up and out, his stomach heaving.

Brock.

Brock did this.

He needs to call the hospital, all the hospitals until he can find her, but his phone is ringing again before the thought has fully formed and he's answering it.

'Ma!' he cries into the phone, he doesn't even mean to, the word just spills out.

'Steve.' But it's not his ma. It can't be. Of course it can't be. It's Monty. 'Steve, where are you?'

'At home,' Steve says, closing his eyes. leaning his forehead down on the toilet bowl. He doesn't even care, he can't think straight. 'Monty, where's ma?'

'Steve, don't move. I'm coming to you. But pack a bag. We have to get out of town.'

'Monty, where's ma?'

' _ Don't move,'  _ Monty says again, emphatic, 'I'll be there in five.' And the line goes dead.

'Oh Jesus.' Steve says into his hands, 'Oh Jesus Christ.'

And arms are closing around him. Strong arms, pulling him away from the toilet and wrapping around him. Cradling his head onto a hard, round shoulder, pulling it in close to a neck that smells like copper and sweat, and underneath that something familiar. Nicotine and smoke and something safe.

Like a boy with blue-grey eyes full of warmth that was never a lie. Jimmy was never the liar.

Steve can only reach his hands up to grab hold of wet fabric and pull that boy closer. He can only breathe him in and sob into that safety. Can only hold on.

And everything narrows down to the heart beating against his arms, to the breath in his hair. To the pulse under his cheek. And Steve holds on.

He holds on.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me at [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue) on tumblr
> 
> They've found each other again... And you know these boys together are always greater than the sum of their parts, its all looking up from here ❤️❤️


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is crouched here in Bucky’s arms, on the floor of this tiny bathroom. And Bucky is letting it sink in that he's real. Even big and broad as he is now, this new Steve, this grown up Steve, he fits just as beautifully into Bucky’s arms as Bucky always imagined he would. Way back then, the way Bucky remembers him, Steve was so small, so delicate, Bucky just wanted to hold him and keep him safe…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, friends... if you haven't noticed, I have - im sorry to say - increased the chapter count to 8. These chapters have been shorter than I intended, and the end of this one marks the half way point (or thereabouts). I do apologise.
> 
> But it’s all on track for good things to come. And I thank you for being here with me, for taking this journey with me. Its so inspiring to have you all with me. I couldn't do it without you.
> 
> So much love to you all.
> 
> Special love to the gorgeous [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for the brilliant beta and the much needed hand holding.

### Sam

Sam’s shift doesn’t start for another forty five minutes but he’s antsy. He’s been sitting for too long today. He's never been a fan of being idle, even before Afghanistan. And now… well now, too much time to think is dangerous. 

Sam's half convinced Bucky offered him a job just to get him to quit _pacing_. At the club he can keep his hands busy. Tending bar at a strip club in East Flatbush can get plenty busy - occasionally throwing out some handsy assholes, occasionally cutting off some drunks, occasionally going home with a guy from the bar, a pretty face and a tight wet mouth, only wanting one thing from Sam, one thing he can give and take, no names exchanged. No feelings involved.

But even then. His feet needed more, his shoulders. He felt too light. Too likely to float away. Dancing when they had a no-show? Not the most obvious job for an ex marine with too many nightmares, too much anxiety. Too much baggage. But it lets him let off steam in a different way. He likes it probably more than he should.

Turns out though, it's being Bucky’s second… Being his right hand man… That keeps his mind blissfully quiet. He doesn’t even mind the grey morality of it. The war was enough of a grey morality all by itself. This petty shit the families in Flatbush have them doing is small potatoes compared to what the US government is capable of. Sam knows that first hand. 

So yes, he’s sitting in the dressing room, hands in the glitter jar, body on display, winking at Wanda who always laughs, and always blushes at the attention. And he’s rocking his leg where he sits because he just can not keep still.

It’s not a surprise when his phone rings, he gets calls all day.

But it _is_ a surprise that it’s Pietro.

‘What’s wrong,’ Sam says as he accepts the call. Because Pietro is supposed to be in the car right now. Waiting for George and Bucky to finish their meeting with Brock. And Sam knows that asshole is nothing but bad news.

‘Sam,’ Pietro’s breathing is heavy, laboured, ‘Sam, we need help,’ his accent is sharp, thick, most of what Sam can hear is sirens, shouting, just... noise that fills Sam with dread.

‘Pietro, what? Where are you?’ Sam is up and out of his chair, Wanda has swung around at the sound of her brother’s name. ‘What do you need?’

‘I lost the car, I don’t even know…’ He sounds terrified, ‘I don’t even know where to go. Bucky…’

‘What about Bucky?’

'He's not…'

'Pietro, where is he?'

‘I don’t know. Inside still maybe, he never came out, Nat never came out.’ Pietro is getting quieter and quieter, ‘Nobody came out.’

‘What do you mean, nobody came out? What happened!’ Sam is trying to pull his clothes on one handed, while he talks on the phone, but Wanda grabs it from him and puts it on the dresser, puts it on speaker, ‘What happened?’ he asks again.

‘I was in the car, the boss told me to wait in the car, and then- shit.’ The line goes dead and Wanda jumps forward to check the phone.

‘Pietro!’ she says, and some of the other dancers have gathered around to see what’s happening. 

Sam turns to one of them, Peter, and tells him to try and call Nat’s phone.

‘Sam, where did he go?’ Wanda is looking at Sam, she’s holding the phone, and Sam is about to say he doesn’t know, but then the phone lights up with another incoming call. And Wanda answers it as soon as Pietro’s name appears. She puts it on speaker again.

‘Sorry, Sam, I’m somewhere between Hawthorn and Parkside and I’m stuck. I had to ditch the car and there are cops everywhere now. I don’t even… I dont-’

‘Pietro, we can come to you. Me and Wanda are coming to you, okay - can you get somewhere to wait for us safely?’

‘I don’t… yeah, umm-’ there’s a rustling, cloth passing over the speaker ‘-I think I can get into this building. Hang on.’

Wanda is staring at the phone with her hand over her mouth. Her eyes are wide. Peter is dialling and redialling Nat’s number with no answer and getting increasingly agitated. Sam is about ready to explode from standing in this purgatory of not knowing. Not helping. Waiting. 

And then they hear Pietro’s breathing again, ‘Okay, yeah, I’m inside. It’s an old hardware store on Rogers, it’s boarded up but I made it in. I’ll wait for you here.’

‘Okay we’ll be ten minutes, we’re leaving now. Wanda can call you back from the car,’ Sam looks over at Wanda and she nods, she’s grabbing a sweater and a jacket, shoes to put on in the car and she grabs a Beretta from under Nat’s dresser and shoves it into her waistband. ‘Just hang tight, man.’

Sam doesn’t waste time with anything else. He grabs his own shit, grabs his med kit and his Glock and the shoulder holster. Pulls a henley on so his holster doesn’t cut him up, getting glitter on everything, his chest is already covered in it. And he grabs a knit cap and his boots, pulling them on as he asks Peter to keep trying Clint instead, find out if he knows what the fuck is going on.

Nobody came out, Pietro said. _Nobody came out._

Sam doesn’t even know how to process that. So he chooses not to. He keeps moving. Bundles Wanda into the car and they drive. At this time on a Saturday night it’s chaos, and Sam is punching at the wheel with his palm more than he should. Wanda reaches over and puts a hand on his leg. Calm. Still. This is a pain she knows too. And Sam shouldn’t take that for granted. Wanda is an old soul, for all that she looks like she needs to be wrapped up in blankets. Sam lets that comfort him. Lets it guide his breath, his centre. And he tries not to panic at all the time they are wasting. 

‘Bratan? Petya? What happened?’ Wanda asks, phone in her lap and on speaker.

‘They came out of nowhere, Kiska,’ he starts, voice shaking even through the speakers, ‘I was pulling the car into a safe spot, Boss was nervous but he wasn’t _worried_. Fuck, I dont know… it seemed like we were all on edge but because we wanted it to go good. Not because… Not because…’

‘Petya, you need to tell us what _happened_.’

‘A van, a big van, drove up to the corner, and then a jeep from the other side, and it looked so bad, Kiska, it looked so bad. And I had my phone out to dial Natalia but they just started shooting!’

Sam’s heart is racing in his chest. He’s sweating. But he has to keep driving. Has to keep moving. First they need to get to Pietro, and Pietro can get them to Bucky. To Nat.

‘Who was shooting, Petya?’ Wanda is watching Sam in her peripheral, her eyes are still wide and unblinking. 

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see, and I tried to drive around the back but they started shooting at the car. I left it. I just ran. I tried to find a way back, retrace my steps, but the sirens and the gunfire and there was so much noise and so I called you.’

‘Pietro, it’s okay, it’s okay-’

‘I left them,’ Pietro’s voice breaks, ‘I left them there…’

Sam is shaking his head, he turns his head to direct his voice at the speaker, ‘Pietro, you had to call for backup,’ he’s trying to keep his voice steady, keep his breathing even, ‘You did what you were supposed to do.’

‘It was so loud, I couldn’t…’

‘Pietro, you didn’t draw them back to the club and you didn’t get caught. You called me. That was the _right thing.’_ Sam stresses his voice into the phone, ‘You did the right thing, kid.’ Wanda squeezes her hand on Sam’s leg and he swallows down the scream that wants to escape. ‘We’re right out front of the address you gave us Pietro, it’s clear.’

‘Oh god, oh thank god.’ They hear more rustling through the phone, there are no lights on in the old store and it’s dark, but soon enough the door opens tentatively and then they see the silver haired figure emerge. They see the broad shoulders and the black suit look out over the street and spot the car, close the door behind him and turn back to them. He’s moving but he’s moving slowly. Holding his arm.

He’s been hit, shoulder maybe. Sam can’t see how bad it is against the black of his suit, but the kid looks even more ashen than normal. It could be shock. And it’s freezing out tonight, in a suit wet with blood, hiding in an abandoned store, the kid is probably way too cold. 

Wanda is out of the car and has her gun drawn, but held tight by her side. She runs to her brother and herds him back towards Sam, opens the front door to look in, waiting for instructions. 

‘Wanda, get him in the back,’ Sam reaches over into the back to grab the fleece blanket out from under the seat, ‘Get his jacket off, find out where he’s been hit.’

She shuffles her brother into the backseat and follows after him as Sam takes off. But he can see Pietro shivering in the rear view, can see how pale he is. Can see the blood staining his shirt as Wanda removes his jacket carefully. 

‘Keep down and keep the blanket around him,’ Sam says, conscious that there will be cops everywhere, ‘Put some gauze on it from my bag and put pressure. But keep him sitting, don’t lie him down.’

And Wanda does her best to keep Pietro half sitting, keep the blanket around him, keep pressure on the wound, while Sam drives slowly and carefully to where Pietro directs him. As close to the corner of Nostrand and Lefferts as he can get without drawing attention. 

But his care is worthless. It won't make a difference now. Because the whole fucking restaurant is on fire. 

It’s on fire.

‘Oh Jesus, oh fuck, they were in there. They were _in there.’_ Pietro is calling out and Wanda is trying to shush him. Trying to pull him back against her shoulder.

‘We don't know that, Petya, they could have got out the back, you said you couldn’t get back there.’

‘Maybe there is no back way!’

And Sam is trying to ignore them, trying to ignore the acid rising up in his stomach. He’s trying to ignore that voice in his head, the voice telling him that _of course_ this was going to happen. Of course it would all end in flames. Everything in Sam’s life ends this way. 

Only his phone is ringing. Ringing from the passenger seat. And the number on the screen is unknown. Sam pulls the car over to the side of the road so fast he almost causes an accident. 

He doesn’t give a shit.

‘Who is this?’ he answers, with no fucks to give about phone manners.

And he nearly collapses with relief at the soft, ‘Sam,’ he hears on the other end. 

‘Oh fuck, Bucky, oh thank fucking fuck. Where are you?’

‘I’m in Crown Heights,’ Bucky says, his voice is husky and low. More than usual. Strained. ‘I need you to come and get Nat.’

‘I’m on my way. I’ve got Wanda and Pietro-’

‘Pietro’s with you?’ Bucky cuts in, louder, desperate, ‘Is he okay?’

‘He’s taken a hit, and he’s in shock. He needs to get back to the club. What about you? What about Nat and George?’

‘Nat’s been hit too. She’s getting stitched up here, but she needs something for the pain. She might need a transfusion, I can’t tell.’

‘I’m fine, James,’ Sam can hear Nat’s smoky voice in the background, disgruntled and growly. It loosens something in Sam’s chest to hear it. 

‘Okay give me the address, I’ll be there in five. Crown Heights is just round the corner.’

‘Thank you, Sam. Thank you.’

‘Just hang tight Bucky. I’m on my way.’

He weaves in and out of traffic as much as he dares without drawing attention. But he has a real goal now. A focus. He has time still to _fix this_.

It’s not until after Sam hangs up he realises Bucky didn’t say anything about George. 

Or Brock…

### Bucky

Steve is crouched here in Bucky’s arms, on the floor of this tiny bathroom. And Bucky is letting it sink in that he's _real_. Even big and broad as he is now, this new Steve, this grown up Steve, he fits just as beautifully into Bucky’s arms as Bucky always imagined he would. Way back then, the way Bucky remembers him, Steve was so small, so delicate, Bucky just wanted to hold him and keep him safe…

He wants to do the same now, but this is… not how he pictured it. Not _after_ the danger has passed. Not after having failed him so spectacularly. 

Bucky doesn’t deserve this. To be allowed to give this comfort. But he can’t not. Steve needs something to cling to, and Bucky is all that he has right now. And Bucky isn’t strong enough, isn’t good enough, not to take that comfort and turn it on himself. Not to bury his nose into Steve’s hair and smell the rosemary, the black tea, the graphite. All the smells that take Bucky back to that boy on the stairs, so lost and so beautiful. So clever and brave. Bucky wants to be sixteen again. Wants another chance to go back. To seek that boy out and apologise the way he should have at the time. To wrap him up safe and make him understand that it wasn’t anything Stevie had said. It was old men’s greed and fear that killed his father.

It was a young man’s greed that killed his mother today.

And he may have failed at everything else, but Bucky won’t fail to make that man pay. Brock _will_ pay for this. Brock will pay for all of it. 

Steve is gripping at Bucky’s shirt with strong fingers, pulling Bucky in close. He’s shaking into Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky is wrapping him up, holding him in, but if Steve’s man is coming here, they might not have much time. Still… Bucky can’t bring himself to move. 

This is everything he didn’t realise he’s been missing for so long. This, Steve, in his arms, the warmth of him, the smell of him, the skin against his skin, hair teasing against Bucky’s chin. This is everything that Bucky has been dreaming about for years. Maybe since before the marines. Before coming back to this life…

Maybe since that very day of learning that his father had met with the heads of the other families and knew what they had planned for Joseph. That he had done nothing to stop it… Bucky was helpless. Hopeless. Stevie had disappeared from the stairwell, and Bucky had been told to keep his distance. To let the family grieve. To not make things worse. Steve didn’t want anything to do with him and Bucky would only hurt him by pushing. 

But now he knows… Knows the lies they told them. For whatever reason they chose to drive Bucky and Steve apart…

And this… the whole world is crashing down around them, but they’ve found each other again. 

They found their way back.

‘Jimmy,’ he hears Steve whisper, muffled, strained, ‘Jimmy you have to leave.’

And Bucky’s heart stops. His breath is held. Maybe Steve _can’t_ forgive him… Maybe it's too much to forgive this time…

‘No, not like that,’ Steve says, more forceful, less muffled, pulling Bucky back in by the material of his shirt.

Bucky hadn’t even noticed he’d been pulling away.

‘Monty is on his way, he says I have to pack a bag.’ Steve looks up at Bucky then, eyes wide and unblinking, ‘He can’t find you here.’

And Bucky has to think. He has to try and switch his brain off. He needs clarity right now, but he doesn’t want to pull away from this feeling… this fog of possibility. 

‘James, we need to go.’ Nat is trying to stand, trying to get her feet under her.

‘I need to do your sutures,’ Steve says to Nat, finally pulling himself out of Bucky’s arms and looking over at Nat, ‘You need to lie back before you collapse.’

‘I’m fine,’ she says, gritting her teeth, and Bucky doesn’t doubt it, but he also doesn’t want her losing any more blood if they can help it.

‘Listen to him please, Nat. Do as he says.’

‘We need to leave, James,’ she says again, sharper this time. 

‘I can’t leave with you if you’re going to die on me,’ he says, keeping his voice as light as he can make it, make it a joke, even if it’s far too real a possibility, ‘I need you fixed.’

She looks him in the eye, her own eyes narrowed, and if looks could kill, he’d be following his father into death right now. But they can’t, and he wont. Nat reluctantly nods her submission. 

Bucky moves slowly backwards to let Steve all the way up, to let him move past him, back to his bag and to Natalia. Steve removes the bandage that she’d put on herself.

‘This looks like it might be okay,’ Steve says, poking gently at the wound on either side. ‘I can stitch this and the internal injuries might actually heal up on their own. Though I strongly recommend you get to a hospital and get yourself a blood transfusion.’

‘Sure,’ Nat says, heavy on the sarcasm, ‘Should be no problem.’

‘Okay, I’m just going to pretend you’re serious and suture this so that you guys can go…’ He looks over at Bucky, as he sits himself back up onto the bathtub, to watch Steve’s fingers be as dexterous with a needle as they are with a pencil, ‘ _Do_ you guys have somewhere to go?’

Bucky remembers that his phone is broken in his pocket… remembers that he should have borrowed or stolen a phone and called Sam about twenty minutes ago. Remembers that there is a whole world that is still moving along without him, outside of this room, outside of that restaurant… time hasn’t just stopped for everybody else. 

‘Yes, I... Do you have a phone I could borrow?’ 

Steve hands his phone over with casual indifference.

Bucky takes it, wary of that easy trust, and dials Sam’s number from memory. It barely rings before there’s an answer.

‘Who is this?’ And Bucky wants to cry at the sound of that voice. The familiar tone, the depth and the comfort. 

‘Sam.’

‘Oh fuck, Bucky, where are you?’

‘I’m in Crown Heights,’ Bucky says, he’s looking at Steve and trying not to choke on his words, ‘I need you to come and get Nat.’

‘I’m on my way. I’ve got Wanda and Pietro-’ 

‘Pietro’s with you?’ Bucky cuts in, Jesus he was so sure Pietro would be dead. Fuck he hadn’t even looked for him, ‘Is he okay?’

‘He’s taken a hit, and he’s in shock. He needs to get back to the club. What about you? What about Nat and George?’ 

George… 

George.

‘Nat’s been hit too. She’s getting stitched up here, but she needs something for the pain. She might need a transfusion, I can’t tell.’ And Steve looks over to him and nods his head. He doesn’t even understand how Steve is still functional at this point. But maybe this is a Nurse thing. He can drown it all out while he does his job. Maybe as soon as Nat is stitched he’ll just fall apart. 

‘I’m fine, James,’ Nat is looking at Bucky and rolling her eyes. He wants to tell her to fuck of, punch her on the shoulder like he always does, get punched three times as hard in return. But she also looks like she might break at any moment. There is a fear in her eyes he’s never seen before, and he’s known her forever. Nat has been working for his father since she was a teenager. Bucky doesn’t even remember how it happened or why, but one day she was just … there… and she has been ever since. 

‘Okay give me the address I’ll be there in five.’ Sam’s voice cuts through his musings, ‘Crown Heights is just round the corner.’

Bucky gives him the address almost automatically, the street names have been searing into his brain for so many days now… just waiting for an excuse to be used. 

Sam hangs up with a sharp order to hold tight.

And Bucky would be happy to. But it seems like they’ve run out of time… Because they can hear the front door open, and Bucky is on his feet in less than a second, Nat is trying to push Steve off her but he’s strong.

‘Natalia, don’t move,’ he’s saying, holding her in place while he tries to cut the suture material, ‘Jimmy, no!’ Steve is reaching up to him with one hand, holding Nat with the other, ‘Put your gun away, it’s Monty. _Please_ Jimmy!’

‘Steve!’ they hear from the front room, ‘What’s going on, who’s in there with you?’

Whoever it is isn’t rushing in, they're staying back, but they have a gun and the safety is off, Bucky hears it cock. A revolver maybe...

‘Monty! It’s fine! They’re friends!’ Steve doesn’t even hesitate on the word friends. Like he truly means it. Like it wasn’t just five minutes ago that he and Bucky had been no better than total strangers. ‘They need my help.’

‘Steve, who is it?’

Bucky recognises that voice… The lilting accent, the lengthened vowels… It’s Sarah’s man from the restaurant.

‘It’s James Barnes,’ Bucky calls out, puts his gun back into its holster, ‘I came to get help for Natalia.’

‘Jaysus,’ Bucky hears the sounds of the gun being decocked but puts his hands up anyway, to be safe.

‘We don’t want any trouble,’ Bucky calls again, and Nat is looking at him, but he doesn’t care what she thinks. Doesn’t care that she hates this. Being vulnerable, letting their guard down. 

He needs to take his cue from Steve. Because how are they ever supposed to move forward if they can't trust each other.

How are they ever going to stop killing each other if no one will be the first to put their guns away.

‘Monty, please,’ Steve has lowered his hand from Bucky, but he still has a hand on Nat, trying to keep her still. Needle still between his fingers. ‘Please don’t hurt them.’

‘Alright,’ the voice says, closer. And the man, Monty, sidesteps into the doorway of the bathroom with his gun in hand, held aloft but not pointing at anyone. His finger isn’t on the trigger. ‘What are you doing here?’ He’s looking right at Bucky.

He looks awful. Worse than he had at the restaurant with Sarah in his arms. Ragged, pasty, dark circles under his red rimmed eyes. 

‘Steve…’ Bucky looks at Steve, not sure how much he should say. And then realises there’s nothing he can say now that could get them into any more trouble than they’re already in. ‘Steve came to the Red Room the other night, and we… I was curious, I looked up his address.’

‘You did?’ Steve asks. Bucky and he haven’t even spoken about that night yet.

‘I did,’ he says to Steve, softly, he can feel his lips turn up in the sad approximation of a smile, ‘I wanted to know why you’d come. And I wanted… I wanted…’

‘You followed him here?’ Monty asks.

Bucky shakes his head. ‘No. I didn’t see him again until tonight. And then Nat was hurt, and papa was dead, we couldn’t go to a hospital, it was too far back to the Red Room on foot. And I thought… I thought Stevie could help, after Sarah… after she said what she said...’

And Steve flinches at his mother's name. ‘Ma. Monty, where’s ma?’ he asks, he’s holding Nat who’s stopped trying to get up, and he has blood on his hands, and tears in his eyes. Bucky’s heart is breaking for him.

‘Steve, I…’ Monty starts. He’s shaking his head, he’s frowning. He’s lost. His eyes have fixed to a point in the wall behind Steve’s head, unfocussed. And he sinks down to the ground like his strings have been cut. ‘I got her to the hospital but you weren’t on shift… You’d just left. I tried to call you from the burner phone… Bruce was there, he took her from my arms, Steve, tried to bring her back but she…’ Monty finally looks back at Steve and he’s shattered. His face just crumples. ‘And Dum Dum… is dead. They're both dead. And Bruce said he would take care of Sarah, that I needed to get to you…’

Steve is frozen. He’s looking down at his hands and seems surprised to see them holding the needle. Holding Nat. He shakes his head, shaking it loose, and then slowly cleans his hands with something from a bottle that stinks like pure alcohol. He takes another needle with a length of pre-threaded suture material and then gently moves Nat into a position for him to more easily reach her back.

‘Stevie,’ Bucky says, sliding forward off the tub to reach out to him, but Steve rolls his shoulder away from Bucky’s hand.

‘Just let me finish this. I need to finish this.’ He says. 

What can Bucky do but allow him that space. 

‘What did she say?’ Steve says as he pulls the needle through Nat’s skin. 

Bucky looks at Monty then, and Monty looks back at Bucky, eyes wide. 

‘You said you thought I would help you, after ma said what she said…’ Steve isn’t looking at them, his focus is all on his task, but his shoulders are hunched. His breathing is getting increasingly faster.

Bucky has to close his eyes to the image of Sarah looking up at him, blood everywhere, her hand on his cheek. And Bucky can’t. He can’t say it.

‘She said that Mrs Barnes was right,’ Monty says quietly, staring down into his hands, ‘She said that they should have never kept you apart.’

And Steve’s hand slips. Nat doesn’t make a sound, but Steve swears under his breath, closes his eyes and holds it for a moment. Then starts again. No one speaks while he finishes, ties it off and cuts it close to Nat’s skin. 

‘You still really need a hospital.’

‘We don’t have time for that Steven,’ Nat says. And then she holds a hand up to his face. A mirror of the image Bucky is trying to expel from his clouded brain. ‘We did wrong by you. All of us,’ She looks up at Bucky, ‘Both of you. We did you wrong. And look where it got us.’

Monty is shaking his head. ‘We didn’t know. They were just kids, they hardly knew each other.’

‘Winnie knew.’ Nat pulls back from Steve and starts to stand. ‘She left and took Becca, because she knew. It makes monsters of all of us, this business.’

Bucky doesn’t need to hear this now. Steve doesn’t need any of this right now. And Sam is on his way, because as much as they should be grieving, they need to get the fuck out of here. 

Before Brock finds them. 

‘We need to go.’ Bucky stands, holds Nat by the elbow to keep her steady. ‘Steve, Monty was right, you need to pack a bag. It’s not safe here.’

‘Where am I supposed to go? I should go back to the hospital, back to Ma. I need to see her. I need-’

‘Steve you _can’t’_ Monty is on his knees, moving towards Steve, ‘Barnes is right, it’s not safe. We have to go now.’

‘I need to see her, Monty!’ 

‘You will. You will, but not tonight, Steve. We need to get to Dernier and Jones. They’re packing what we need, they're getting the word out to some of the restaurants to close up and lay low. And they’re going to meet us at the safe house.’

‘The safe house is no good. Brock knows about the safe house.’

‘What?’ Monty recoils as if slapped. ‘No.’

‘Stevie?’ Bucky asks. How close were Steve and Brock for him to know that? 

‘Not because of me,’ Steve says, looking at Bucky with an unreadable expression. ‘He was working for ma, and she sent him out there to resupply the Banners when they first went into hiding. I remember her saying she thought it had been a mistake.’

Nobody says what they’re thinking. It’s too late now to tell Sarah she was right.

‘I know a place.’ Bucky says instead, his phone ringing as he does. ‘We have a place. You’ll be safe for tonight.’ He ends the call without answering, but shoots a quick text to Sam, saying they’ll be right down.

‘Is that where you’re going?’ Steve asks, standing now too, unfolding his impossibly large body to full height. 

And god, yes. Bucky wants to go with him. Wants to be there to keep him safe. Wants to curl up next to him while he sleeps. He wants to just be wherever Steve is.

But he can’t.

Because they need to get on top of this now. They need to find a way to take Brock out. And he knows the first place Brock will go.

‘I need to get back to the club.’

‘James.’ Nat is reproachful.

Monty is sitting with his head in his hands. And Steve. Steve is staring Bucky down. 

‘Brock will go there. He already thinks he owns that club. He’ll want to stake a claim. He’ll think we’re all dead. They didn’t know about that hidden exit.’

‘We need to get everyone out.’ Nat says.

‘We do. But we need to be surrounding it when Brock gets there. We need to take him out.’

‘Are we sure it’s Brock?’

‘We’ll know if he shows up at the club with an entourage.’

‘I’m coming with you.’ Steve says. And his tone is steady, he’s standing straight. 

‘No.’

‘I’m coming with you. It _was_ Brock. And I’m going to kill him.’

And how can Bucky take that away from Steve? Even if all he wants to do is hide him away and keep him safe? How can he deny Steve his revenge, even if all he wants is to run away from all of this, to be those boys they never got to be.

He can’t. He doesn’t deserve to. 

‘Okay,’ Bucky says, and Steve's icy blue eyes flash bright, too cold for the Steve that Bucky remembers, ‘But we’re leaving now.’

‘I’m ready.’

But Bucky knows he isn't. None of them are.

You never can be, for something like this. 

But they'll do it anyway.

This business will make monsters of them all.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me at [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue) on tumblr
> 
> As one of my most gorgeous vips commented today, righteous rage is going to drive steve right into the thing he never wanted... 
> 
> but never doubt, bucky will be right there to catch him... 
> 
> You've put your trust in me - I promise I won't let you down. ❤❤


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wants to find him. And hold him down. And cut his fucking heart right out of his chest. Still beating. Wants him to watch it shrivel up and die in Steve’s hands.
> 
> Brock.
> 
> Brock Rumlow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> As ever, thank you so much for your continued support of this story. I read every comment with warmth and so much appreciation. I'm under the pump getting this written, so I'm replying sporadically, but please know I cherish your comments. I love hearing from you. 
> 
> And I'm so glad your enjoying reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it.
> 
> Alright I'll leave you to it.
> 
> See you on the other side.

###  Steve

Steve wants to find him. And hold him down. And cut his fucking heart right out of his chest. Still beating. Wants him to watch it shrivel up and die in Steve’s hands.

Brock.

Brock Rumlow.

Who broke bread at Steve’s mothers table. Then murdered her in cold blood. For god knows what. A club. Some cheap shipping imports. A title.

Power.

Brock Rumlow deserves to rot in hell for this betrayal. 

And Steve is so torn. Torn between needing to see his mother, needing to see her, and be sure it's not some terrible mistake. She’s with Bruce. Monty had said Bruce was taking care of her, probably needs to lie about how they found her, who brought her in, what happened. He can bend the truth some. But Steve doesn’t even really know what’s happened. Except that Dum Dum and his ma are dead, Jimmy’s dad is dead. And Natalia is lucky to be alive. 

And Jimmy… Jimmy is here. In Steve’s apartment. Had held Steve in his arms and siphoned some of his pain. Had tried to save his mother. Had offered Monty peace. Put his gun away. Listened to Steve.  _ Trusted _ Steve.

Reminded him of that boy he'd been so comforted by, all those years ago.

But Jimmy is watching him now with hesitation. Wariness. Worried for Steve, and Steve can forgive him for that. Their positions reversed, Steve would be worried about himself too. What he wants is Brock’s head on a stick. Monty, Jones and Dernier, they’ll think it’s more than he can handle. 

But Jimmy will help him, Steve can see it. From guilt, or anger, or this strange connection that they seem to share, undiminished by time, Jimmy will do as Steve asks. And the smallest part of him, the part not completely shattered by tonight’s heartbreak, is warmed by the comfort of that.

‘We have to go,’ Jimmy says, holding Natalia up by her elbow, letting her lean on him, ‘I have a car waiting downstairs, we have to go. Get your stuff Stevie.’

‘Aye, but where are we going?’ Monty asks, ‘We can’t just walk right into your club, James Barnes, people will be looking for us.’

‘No not the club,’ Jimmy shakes his head, ‘Not right away. I need to get Nat and Pietro looked after, we need to prepare.’

They need to prepare…

Steve looks at Jimmy, at Monty, both of them covered in blood and looking like death warmed up. Monty’s been hurt, it seems, though there’s a hastily slapped bandage around his shoulder, over his shirt. Under his suit jacket. They all should be resting, they all should be at a hospital. Jimmy still looks in shock. Steve wants to put a hand to his forehead, wants to feel his temperature, check his pulse. But he isn’t sure Jimmy would let him…

He doesn’t even know what he needs to pack…

‘What should I…’ He looks back to James, swallows his nerves, though the words are shaky, ‘What should I even bring? I don’t… I don’t know what I’ll need…’

James looks at him, Natalia looks at him, both of them haunted, both of them distressed at the question.

And Monty is not much better, wincing at Steve’s innocence.

‘Dark clothes, warm. Easy to run in but hard wearing,’ James says, stepping closer, ‘Money if you have any. And anything you can’t bear to leave behind. You might not be coming back for a while…’

Steve looks down at his hands, at the blood there. He’s no stranger to it, but this is different. It’s never been so obviously a metaphor for what he’s about to do. What he’s desperate for. But he can feel the white hot heat searing into his gut, into his heart, and he needs to focus it outwards somehow, lest it consume him. 

He washes his hands with the cleaning solution from his bag, rinses them and washes them again in the sink. He takes a washcloth and runs it under warm water, reaches over to Jimmy, to wipe away the blood and grime from his beautiful face. He sweeps it across the olive skin of his forehead, across piercing cheekbones, across the stubble of his beard. And James lets him. Doesn’t say a word.

Just tilts his head back to give Steve better access. His eyes, that steel-blue gaze, are following Steve’s movements calmly.

‘People on the street are going to think we escaped a zombie apocalypse,’ Steve says under his breath and is rewarded with a huffed laugh from Natalia. He finishes with James and rinses the face washer, grabs a clean one from the shelves under the sink and wets it to throw to Monty, who scrubs at the blood on his own face and hands. Steve offers another to James, his last, to help Nat get clean. And then he turns sideways to slide past them, between them, and out to the bedroom on the opposite side of his tiny hallway. He doesn’t have time to think much beyond what Jimmy had told him. He grabs dark things, his black cargo pants, his dark grey knit, his black peacoat, a knit cap, a scarf. He grabs sweats, socks and underwear and a pair of black hiking boots. He grabs his phone charger, his tablet. Most of his photos now are in the cloud anyway. He grabs one old album his ma had insisted he take with him when he moved out years ago. Full of photos of him as a child, with his father, with ma, with the boys. Kids from the neighbourhood. 

Next to his bed, in the drawer, is his rosary. On top of the side table, the small plaque his mother had given him at his first communion, ‘Mary mother of god, protect this child’ it reads in gold letters, a likeness of the mother Mary etched into the plated wood. He grabs them both and shoves them into his bag, tries not to remember his mother’s face the day he’d taken his first body of Christ. Tries to forget how much he had let her down every day after that. How he had left the church behind. His family, his responsibilities. 

Well, he’s paying for it now. Mary, in her cruel irony, has kept Steve himself safe all these years. But she's taken everything from him. Left him here with nothing.

‘Steve,’ James voice startles him from the doorway, ‘We have to go, are you ready?’

Steve looks back at him. Nat now walking with Monty, Steve can hear them heading for the front door. 

He looks back at his bed and turns away. Grabs the keys from his dresser, keys for his Ma’s place, for the restaurant, for their safety deposit box. He grabs his stash of cash, as if his ma would have ever let him move out on his own without at least ten thousand to hide under his mattress for a rainy day (he keeps it in the sock drawer, like a normal person). And that’s it. He leaves everything else. It's all just stuff. Stuff he can’t for the life of him think that he might need right now. Or ever. 

And James is right behind him. 

‘Wait,’ Steve says, before Jimmy can shuffle him out the door, ‘Take this,’ and Steve turns around to him, slides his hands up under the collar of the suit jacket Jimmy has stuffed himself back into, wet and icy and covered in blood, and pushes it back over his broad shoulders and down his arms. Tosses it into the bathroom. He grabs his big soft Mets hoodie from the back of the couch and pulls it over Jimmy’s head. ‘You need to keep warm, and this is mostly clean.’

He ignores James stare in favour of grabbing his toothbrush, his med kit and his duffle and shoving his peacoat and scarf on, loading the bags over his shoulder and then grabbing at Jimmy’s elbow to move him along. 

‘We’re in a hurry right?’ Steve asks, mostly just to be a shit. 

‘What about your books?’

‘My what?’ Steve asks, thoughts mostly on shutting off the lights, locking the deadbolt.

‘Your sketchbooks? Your art?’ Jimmy asks. And he’s looking at Steve with raised eyebrows, full of expectation. 

It’s been so long. So long since he even touched a pencil. 

‘I don’t draw,’ he says. And turns away from the confusion on Jimmy’s face.

‘Stevie, you draw all day and night, what are you talking about.’

‘I don’t draw, Jimmy. Not anymore.’ Steve refuses to meet his eye, but he softens his voice. ‘Come on. People are waiting.’

James doesn’t argue, he keeps his mouth shut and lets Steve pull him out the door. But Steve can feel his questions, hanging heavy in the air between them. They catch up to a much slower Nat and Monty down the stairs and follow them to the street, where a car is waiting for them, an SUV, big and black and shiny. 

The guy standing by the passenger door looks pissed. And it's actually a good look for him. His thick dark eyebrows are drawn tight, his deep red-brown lips held thin and angry underneath a perfectly sculpted goatee, his warm brown eyes narrowed at Monty as he helps Nat to the car. But when they land on James they widen, and his face loses its tension.

And Steve hates that his first impulse is to wonder what they mean to each other, and where that would leave Steve. 

‘Bucky, Jesus. What the fuck happened?’

'Let's just get in the car.'

'What are you wearing?'

‘Sam, we need to get out of the street, we’re going to the house on Marlborough. We can talk about this on the way.’

He doesn’t look happy about it, this Sam, but he opens the passenger door of the SUV for Bucky to get in. Bucky nods at his friend but gestures for him to return to the drivers side, and instead of getting in he opens the backdoor for Nat, Monty and Steve to step into the seats in the back. 

A young couple are sitting in the middle row, blood spattered and pale as ghosts. Steve can see them clinging to each other, enough alike in looks that they might be brother and sister. They eye Steve and Monty warily, but Nat’s presence among them is enough to keep them quiet. And Bucky turns around in his seat to speak to Steve as they fold themselves into the back row.

‘We’re ten minutes from my safe house. It’s big enough for all of us, and it's well stocked. Can you get your men to meet us there? Three fifteen Marlborough Road, Prospect Park South.’ 

Monty is nodding as he pulls the seatbelt across Nat and eases her back against the seat. Steve keeps forgetting that they have so much history. He doesn’t question it though. He can let them look after each other. He has ten minutes to try and stop his head from imploding. To try and stop himself from pulling at the handle and jumping clear of the car, running back to the hospital to find Bruce, find his ma. Say goodbye. 

But that won't help. It won't help. He’ll just be putting everyone at risk. All the families in the community that depend on Sarah Rogers for their livelihood. That need her protection, her help, her contacts. That need the licences that his ma was crawling back to George Barnes for in the first place.

He can’t let all of that be for nothing. He can’t let her legacy be a sniveling son who fell apart the minute the mantle reached his hands.

His ma had not fallen apart when his father died. She hadn’t shut herself away and turned against the world. She pulled everything together. She built it back up better than it was. 

Steve can’t do anything now but keep that alive for her. 

And the best way to do that now is to get rid of Brock.

As long as he’s alive he’s a danger to all of them. He'd always been a loose cannon. He'd always been so smarmy and self absorbed. 

He'd always been such a fucking asshole. 

Steve can hear quiet talking in the front seat but it’s white noise at this point. The thoughts in his head are so loud. And he’s forgotten to behave like a human man, forgotten to mind his manners, his mother would absolutely murder him if she saw him like this. But she can’t.

Not anymore.

‘What will we do about Brock?’ he asks, voice deep, raspy. Broken.

The chatter from the front stops at his question and Jimmy turns around to him. Sam is looking at him in the rear view mirror. And the kids in the middle seats pop their heads up and apart. Look at Steve like he just grew a new head.

‘Brock?’ the young girl says.

‘Kiska, shush.’ her brother says quietly. Terrified.

‘Brock did this?’ she asks, louder, sitting up higher, accent thick and sharp. Eastern European, Knowing Jimmy and the Barnes’, probably Russian. 

‘Yes.’ Steve says. 

‘We don’t know that.’ James puts a hand out to Steve, a ‘whoa there’ gesture. But Steve does know it. He does.

‘I can feel it,’ Steve says. ‘I knew he was trouble at dinner last week. I knew he was planning something. And I told her to be careful. I said-’ and his voice breaks on the words. He can’t say. He told her to be careful of the _ Barnes’ _ he never said anything about Brock. And what a stupid mistake he’d made. What a terrible error. 

To have demonised the Barnes all these years. To have blamed Jimmy and himself, to have let that betrayal fester into something huge and consuming. To have had it colour so many of his choices. And now know that he was wrong all this time.

And it’s not like he’d asked. Not really. He’d never pushed. He’d never tried to go to Jimmy. They’d pulled him out of the school. Sent him to catholic school instead. And he never fought it. Not one bit of it. He rode the flames of his anger and despair, let them warm him, burn him from the inside out. Into a shell of a man.

And this is what he has to show for it.

Nothing.

Not one thing.

‘Stevie,’ Jimmy is turned all the way around in his seat. And Steve wants to yell at him to put his seatbelt on. But he can’t think straight. ‘We need to be sure. Running out half cocked to gun down the people you think are at fault is how we all get ourselves killed.’

Sam is nodding his head in the driver's seat. 

Monty makes a small noise of agreement from next to Steve. He’s been texting furiously on his phone since they sat down. But he does look up to nod his head at Steve.

‘Listen to your man, Steven. We need to be sure. We need proof. Otherwise we start a war.’

Steve wants to correct him, Jimmy isn't his man. But he likes the sound of those words too much to dispute them. 

Instead he focuses on Brock. ‘He sat at my mother's table, eating my mother's food, and he told me that George had given him the Red Room.’

James stares at him and blinks slowly. ‘He said what?’

‘He said your da had given him the keys to the Red Room, said he’ll be taking it over and he said… Jesus he’d even said that Natalia wouldn’t be a problem for much longer.’ 

‘That little fucker,’ Nat says under her breath.

Steve thinks back to that conversation. To what had been said. To how uncomfortable he had felt at the time, because something had been off. Brock had been so cocky, even more than normal. So intensely shark-like. So quick to do Steve’s ma a favour. Jesus, Mary, Steve knew. He knew and he said  _ nothing _ . ‘Oh god,’ he says, he crosses his arms over his stomach, ‘Oh god, this is my fault.’

‘Stevie  _ no.’ _ Jimmy says, reaching out to Steve but too far away to reach.

‘I hate to break this to you,’ Nat says, voice still worryingly quiet, ‘But Brock Rumlow being a good for nothing low life scum is nobody's fault but his own.’

‘Steven, don’t do this to yourself,’ Monty says, laying a hand on Steve’s crossed arms, his phone gone, ‘This was not you. You did not do this.’

‘I knew something was wrong and I ignored it.’ He had. He had gotten distracted. ‘I went to that club and… And I ran into James and I… forgot all about it.’

‘You were at the Red Room because of Brock?’

‘It had sounded so fishy,’ Steve says, looking down at his hands, ‘I knew something was off.’

‘It sure sounds like he was planning something, Buck,’ Sam says, voice thick and rich, ‘And we never heard from him after we tossed him that night.’

‘I knew it too.’ Jimmy says, his eyes on Steve. ‘I knew he was planning something, I could feel it too. So if it’s your fault, Stevie, then it’s my fault too.’

Steve is shaking his head. No. Jimmy hadn’t done this. This had broken Jimmy just like it had broken Steve. He can see it in his eyes. 

‘No, Jimmy.’

‘Yes Steve, hey,’ he says, holding Steve’s eyes as he looks up at him, ‘Yes, Steve. This was Brock. This wasn’t you and it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t papa or Sarah. This was Brock. And his hatred, and his greed. Don’t let him off for one single second of this. He did it all.’

‘We need more proof than that.’ Sam says from the front. Steve wants to throw something at him. 

‘You’re right. But maybe we know where to start looking.’

James spends the rest of their short trip organising for the club to be closed. It’s too risky, he says, to keep anyone on, in case Brock tries to shoot his way in. And if he turns up, they have eyes on the front and back, just in case. Word can get back to James. They’re only a few minutes away. 

Monty assures Steve that their own people are laying low too. There’s enough of a police presence in and around the streets of Prospect Lefferts Garden that it makes sense for all of them to close early. 

Steve wonders how much can get done tonight, so that people can go back to their lives in the morning.

The people that will still have lives in the morning…

His thoughts are interrupted by the car pulling into a driveway. And then into a garage. Brick and big and organised with inbuilt shelves along either side. Toolboxes and tools, engine parts, bike chassis, rows of them. It’s beautiful. There are two bikes in the garage, and a small car. Indistinct and dark grey. 

James is up and out of his seat before the car has even come to a stop. He comes around to the back door and opens it for the others, helping the young girl, Steve has only heard her called Kiska so far but that might be a pet name, to get her much bigger and much paler looking brother out of the backseat. He’s lost too much blood, and he’s not looking good. 

‘Okay, we need to get Pietro and Nat into the kitchen. Sam,’ he says as the man comes around to their side and takes the guy from James, getting under his arm, ‘I need you to check Pietro first. Nat is at least stitched. And Monty? Falsworth is it?’ Jimmy asks.

Monty unfolds himself from the car and holds a hand out to Jimmy, ‘Montgomery Falsworth,’ he says sagely.

‘Bucky Barnes,’ Jimmy says, taking Monty’s hand and shaking it firmly, just once, before letting go. 

‘Bucky,’ Monty says, rolling the words on his tongue, ‘You prefer that?’

‘I do,’ Jimmy says.

‘You do?’ Steve asks. 

And Jimmy, or Bucky, he supposes, nods. Folds his eyebrows into a frown at Steve but doesn't elaborate. 

‘Come on, let’s get inside. We don’t have a lot of time.’

They follow Jimmy,  _ Bucky, _ into the house through the interior door of the garage. It opens into a mudroom and attached laundry. And then into the kitchen, which is huge, and modern, and beautiful. Dark grey cabinets and white concrete countertops, wooden floorboards. A huge wooden island bench in the middle of the room. It’s bigger than Steve’s entire apartment.

He watches Jimmy grab a chair and sit the boy in it. Pietro, they had said. His sister helps cut him out of his jacket and shirt. And Steve would step in to look at the bullet wound, but Sam has beat him to it. Has opened a bag at his feet and is pulling out instruments much like Steve’s. It's a mirror to the scene from his own bathroom not half an hour earlier.

A hand reaches out to touch Steve gently on the forearm, and Steve looks down at it. Up into the steel-blue of Jimmy’s beautiful eyes. Jimmy, Bucky, whoever he is now. Standing in front of him in Steve’s own hoodie, hair wet and still reddy brown with residual blood. 

‘Stevie, what do you need?’

And there's so much Steve wants to say. But none of it can be said right now. ‘I need to make sure Monty is okay. I should look at his shoulder.’

‘Steve, you need to take a minute.’

‘I don’t. I really don’t,’ he says, and he hates that he can feel tears in his eyes. Hates that he sounds so shattered. Though he’s in good company for it at least.

And it’s not like Jimmy hasn’t seen him like this before.

‘Please don’t make me take time. I need to keep going or I won’t be able to get back up again, Jimmy.’

‘Steve.’

‘Or I guess it’s Bucky now.’

He doesn't mean that to sound like an accusation. But it does all the same. 

‘Bucky is what my friends call me. I figure, after what we’ve been through today, I mean I hope that's what we are.’ 

Steve can see Monty nod his head at Jimmy in his periphery. He can see Nat put a hand on Monty’s arm, to get him to sit at the dining table so she can look at him. He can see Sam putting pressure on Pietro’s wound, talking to him in that rich deep voice, calm and soothing. 

He could have worse friends than this. 

He  _ could _ have this. If he wanted. If he can keep it. If they can make it out of the mess they're in. He could  _ choose _ this.

It's too much to think about now. He needs his mind empty. He needs his hands occupied. But he looks back up at Jimmy, Bucky. He looks back up at Bucky and he nods his head at him too.

‘You can still call me Stevie,' and Steve should be forgiven for the way he bites his lip as he says it, 'I always liked the way you said it.’

And maybe that was too much, but Bucky is looking at him with wide eyes. And he nods in return. He nods and he reaches his hand up to cup Steve’s face with his palm. Runs a thumb across his cheekbone to catch at the wetness there. And he brings Steve’s face closer with his other hand around the back of Steve’s head. Touches their foreheads together. 

‘I’d like that,’ he says softly, ‘I want that, Stevie.’

Steve reaches his own hands up to rest them on Bucky’s chest. ‘Me too,’ he says, ‘I want that too.’

‘Maybe you guys could have your moment after we get this shit sorted?’ Sam says, and Bucky huffs a laugh. But Steve isn’t so amused. 

Bucky pulls back, lets go, and Steve lets his hands drop. ‘Right, yes. Wanda. Can you get Clint and Maria here?’ He walks away from Steve, looks back with a sad smile, and then back to Wanda and Sam. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s okay. There's some damage, but it will heal up if he rests it enough. I need to stitch it once it stops bleeding.’

‘Can we check Falsworth too?’

‘I’ll do whatever you tell me to do Bucky, but at some point you’re going to need to tell me what the fuck is going on.’

‘Sam, we don’t know much more than you.’ 

Steve moves away from them as they start talking, and he stands over Monty, Nat sitting beside him. 

‘How about you make us some tea, Steven?’ Nat asks. And Steve would bristle, but he knows she’s trying to keep him busy.

‘Let me look at this first,’ he says, taking Monty’s arm and unwrapping the bandage. ‘Did Bruce do this?’

‘Yes,’ Monty says, looking up at Steve, barely keeping his eyes open, ‘Sarah… Sarah was dead when I got there. Bruce used the crash cart, CPR, he did what he could, but she was gone Steve.’

Steve is nodding. He’s seen enough of the same come through the hospital. Even in paeds. It’s heartbreaking. Probably different when it's a woman you’ve known for years. A woman who helped your family get through having a mob target on their heads, helped them come out the other side clean. Bruce must be reeling.

‘He patched me up some, said it wasn’t that bad actually, but he made me leave. And I needed to get to you anyway.’

‘Did he say what will happen to her now?’

‘He said he would take care of it. I assume that means he’ll get rid of the records of how she was brought in. It will still have to be investigated. We can’t hide her. It wouldn’t do us any good.’

Steve feels like throwing up, they’re talking about his mother's dead body. But the part of him that needs to just keep going right now, it doesn’t have time for that. It skips over it, it buries that away to fester and warp, ready for Steve to unpack later and probably never recover from. He checks over the gauze that Bruce has covered the wound with. The shoulder is sliced across where a bullet, a big bullet it seems, has grazed but not hit him. 

‘This probably need stitches too, Monty.’

‘Just glue it,’ Monty says. And Steve isn’t a fan of the idea, but it’s probably good enough for this. It will be quicker and easier. He doesn’t have that much suture material left anyway.

‘Okay. Okay I can do that.’

He remembers the last time he glued a wound like this, in the kitchen of his ma’s house. When Brock had been knifed by some guy. Probably well deserved. He remembers the way Brock had kept leaning too close to whisper into Steve’s ear as he glued it, and then complained afterwards that it had scarred wrong. Not straight enough. 

Steve wishes he had ripped him open instead of glueing him shut. 

He shakes the memory away and gets to work, cleaning and then gluing Monty’s torn skin. 

It’s as he’s finishing up that Sam comes to stand by them, ‘Looks good,’ he says, looking at Monty’s shoulder, at Steve’s steady hands. ‘You’ve done this before huh?’

‘Once or twice,’ Steve says, curt. 

‘Hey listen I wanted… Bucky told me what happened. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.’

‘I appreciate it,’ Steve says, ‘But it’s not worth much.’

And Sam fidgets from foot to foot. Steve almost feels bad for him. ‘Bucky is… Bucky means alot to me, we served together-’

Steve gets a shock from that. There’s so much about Jimmy’s life he missed. Has no idea…

‘-and I gotta work hard to keep him safe. He’s a goddamn menace.’

Steve actually smiles at that. Can’t help it. Can only imagine. 

‘So I just want him to be careful. But if he says you’re good people, then I trust you.’

‘And did he?’ Steve asks.

Sam looks at him, one eyebrow raised, lip turned up in a one sided grin, ‘Something like that, yeah.’

And Steve can see that Sam is laughing at him. But it feels well intentioned. And it's a nice laugh. Comforting. If this is who Bucky’s chosen to work with, fight with, trust with his life, then Steve will do the same. 

He holds his hand out, ‘Then I guess it's nice to meet you, Sam.’

And Sam takes it, shakes it, and smiles for real. It's a good smile. It warms Steve a little, the idea that he has these people on his side. 

He’s going to need them. 

'Guess I better make you some tea, huh?' he says to Nat as Sam bends down to get a closer look at her abdomen.

'Black tea, with milk. Four sugars.'

Of course she drinks disgusting tea.

'And put some whisky in it.'

Steve salutes her sarcastically. But he gets to work. He never did get that hot toddy. Maybe he'll make one for everyone. 

It's a Rogers family tradition. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come yell at me in the comments or [here](https://darter-blue.tumblr.com/) on tumblr [here](https://twitter.com/beclouise13) on twitter
> 
> ❤


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is so worried about Steve.
> 
> Steve hasn't stopped moving since they arrived. In the car he was shaking his legs up and down, wringing his hands, hanging on to some sense of normalcy by his fingertips. Too much emotion ready to spill out and drown him.
> 
> Trying and failing to keep it contained. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks this week go out to the whole crew of the DD. You know who you are. When I needed it you pulled me up and out of a hole of my own making. 
> 
> Thanks to [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for all the help and hand holding. For the brilliant beta as always.
> 
> And to [Kel (Kalee60)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60) for putting up with my bullshit. Its a tough job, and you do it with so much grace. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, dearest readers. Come talk to me in the comments 😘

###  Bucky

Bucky is so worried about Steve.

Steve hasn't stopped moving since they arrived. In the car he was shaking his legs up and down, wringing his hands, hanging on to some sense of normalcy by his fingertips. Too much emotion ready to spill out and drown him.

Trying and failing to keep it contained. 

And now, now he's pacing his way around Bucky's kitchen with glasses of water, checking on Pietro, checking on Wanda, on Nat, on Monty, checking on Bucky and ‘tsking’ over the cut on his cheek. Easing his way closer to Sam, and then back again like a skittish animal, trying to find ways to keep his body moving. Never letting anyone close enough to turn their attention on Steve.

Bucky doesn’t know how to help him. He doesn’t have enough time to put his thoughts in order, doesn't have enough time to sink into the way he's feeling, to examine the tightness in his chest. 

Too many balls are in the air, and Bucky has to focus on logistics right now.

Wanda has made calls and Clint and Maria are on their way here to add expertise and artillery. The Bartons are a family who owe their allegiance to Bucky’s father. To Bucky now, in his place. And Maria has been with Clint and the Bartons for years - a military background and the calmest head for battle Bucky’s ever seen, Maria is a good person to have on side. 

Clint may be a loose cannon but he and Nat go back a long way. Bucky doesn’t know the specifics but there’s a lot of trust there, and Clint will at least be able to get Nat to _ rest _ . She looks like she’s about to collapse. 

The Rogers’ man, Falsworth, doesn’t look much better. Though Bucky has a feeling it’s not so much his injury but the events of the night that have affected him the most. 

Natasha may be feeling like she's failed her job, protecting Bucky's father, but Falsworth has lost his friends. His family. He carried Sarah's body to the hospital, probably willing her to breathe again, praying for a miracle. A prayer that was left unanswered. 

Watching Steve in the kitchen, muttering to himself and cooking up some kind of spiked tea for everyone, knowing what tonight has cost him, is just driving that stake deeper into the poor man's heart. 

Steve doesn’t even seem to realise he’s crying. Tears are falling slowly but freely down his face as he works, and he’s wrecked. He’s so wrecked. Bucky wants to wrap him up and take him away from this. Away from what will surely ruin him; to keep him safe. But he can't.

He can't.

Bucky is pulled sharply from his thoughts as Falsworth signals to him. 

‘They’re here,’ he says, voice scratched and torn. ‘The boys are out the front. They want to be sure it's okay to come in.’

‘Yeah, get them to pull into the driveway. Come through the garage.’ It’s at least safer than having them just walk in off the street. ‘Sam, can you meet them in there?’

‘I can,’ Falsworth says, struggling up from his chair.

‘You should be resting, Monty,’ Steve calls out, coming around from the stove at the back wall of the kitchen, around the giant island counter and across to Falsworth as he holds himself up from the table. ‘Sit down, let me go.’

‘They’ll want to see me, Steve. I called them, they’ll want to be sure.’

Steve is looking at him with concern, but he relents, nods his head and stands back to let Falsworth move past him and into the garage. 

Sam is ready, waiting in the mudroom, remote for the garage in one hand, the other free for his gun, and Wanda has moved to stand in front of Pietro. Pietro who has some of his colour back, but can barely keep his eyes open.

Bucky really needs to get them beds and food and probably showers. 

But first they need to get everyone inside. Like troops to battle, they’re mobilising. And once everyone is here. Once they have men on guard at the club. Once they have a plan in place. Then Bucky can sit. And take stock. 

He has to take each step so carefully right now.

(It shouldn’t be now. It shouldn’t be like this… 

Steve shouldn't be here, he should be safe, he should be far away from this business,

But Bucky can’t… he wants to keep him here… he wants to keep him).

Bucky keeps his eyes on the door. He hears the car as it drives in, Sam closing the roller door with the remote as the car comes to a stop. And everyone holding their collective breaths as the car doors open and voices waft through. Not lilting and Irish like Falsworth, nondescript American accents, and one voice speaking what sounds to Bucky like French. 

He can hear Falsworth greet them, tell them to come in, that it's safe, they can trust Bucky. Steve is inside, he says. And the voices stop. And then start again, louder, closer, as three bodies come barreling through the open door. 

Sam has his hands up and is keeping his voice calm but his volume loud. ‘Hey, whoa, slow down guys,’ Bucky can hear the stress in his voice, ‘Back up, back up for a second.’

‘What is Steve doing here, Monty?’ Bucky hears one of the men ask, and Bucky is inching closer so he can see them better through the mudroom door. They are all standing looking at Sam warily, trying to see around him and through to the kitchen. 

‘Jones it’s okay, he’s… he needs to be here. Okay?’ Falsworth has followed them in and had his hands out to them also, a mirror to Sam’s stance, pleading with them to be calm.

‘You said he was safe!’

‘He is safe, fellas, he’s safe here with me, and with the Barnes’ boy.’

‘George Barnes can’t be trusted,’ one of the men says with a heavy French accent, shorter than the others, olive skin and a thick mustache. Bucky can’t dispute the claim.

‘George Barnes is dead,’ Falsworth says, weight in his words. His head hanging on it. ‘He and Dum Dum and... and Sarah. All of them. It was an ambush.’

‘All the more reason Steve should not be here. He should be at the safe house.’

‘The safe house is compromised, I told you that.’

‘Only by Brock,’ the tallest of them says, pulling off a knit cap to reveal a razor short buzz cut over deep bronze brown skin. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt exactly like the one Bucky is wearing right now, courtesy of Steve. 

‘Brock did this.’ Steve has snuck up behind Bucky and passes by him, brushing his arm gently as he heads towards the men. ‘Brock is the one.’

The others are suddenly silent.

‘Let them in please, Sam, they won't hurt anybody. Except for Monty maybe.’ Steve is smiling as he says it, looking at Monty and then back at the others, ‘But I’ll keep him safe.’

Falsworth bristles at the tone Steve uses, as if he’s upset with the notion that he might need protecting.

‘He didn’t tell us you would be here, Steve. He didn’t say anything about Brock.’ The third man speaks, and Bucky had thought there would only be two men coming from Sarah’s crew, but this man is softer, quieter, with a bright red sweater standing out against his sandy-gold skin. 

‘He didn’t tell me you were coming either, Jim,’ Steve says, ‘Ma said you’d taken a break. I thought you were focussing on family for a while.’

‘I didn’t  _ know  _ he was coming,’ Falsworth says curtly.

‘I couldn’t not be here for Sarah,’ the man says, the floppy fringe of his jet black hair falling into his dark brown eyes. He pushes it back and looks up at Steve gravely. ‘Your mother is the only reason I even  _ have _ a family, Steve.’

And it’s clear that Steve and Sarah mean everything to these men. 

‘Let them through, Sam,’ Bucky says and then reaches forward to shake hands with the man with the matching sweatshirt, ‘Bucky Barnes.’

‘Gabe Jones,’ the man says, shaking Bucky’s hand firmly. ‘This is Jack Dernier and Jim Morita.’

‘Jacques,’ the smaller man says, clearly unimpressed with the Americanised pronunciation of his name. 

Jones rolls his eyes at Bucky. ‘So you have room for all the stuff?’

‘What stuff?’

‘We didn’t know what we’d need, so we brought everything,’ Dernier explains, clipped sharp accent heavy in the words. 

‘Define  _ everything _ ,’ Sam says, crossing his arms and looking on with disapproval. Bucky looks to see Wanda has sat back down next to her brother and Nat is looking on, having not moved a muscle, watching them with her elbows back on the table. Eyes alight with amusement. 

‘Oh, I have M68 grenades, I have flash bombs and I have plastic explosives, in case it was big time.’ He’s nodding his head as if expecting Sam to be pleased.

Sam looks less than pleased. He has his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. 

‘We also brought guns, ammo, and I have some food and a change of clothes for Monty.’ Jones looks over at Monty and looks him up and down. ‘No offense man, but you’ve looked better.’

Steve looks at Bucky, who isn’t sure what to do with these men, and then back at Monty who nods his head. ‘Get your stuff and bring it inside. Should they put the weapons on the table, Buck?’

‘Sure,’ Bucky says, nodding his head. 

‘I’m making hot toddies, come in and sit down. It’s late.’

The men shuffle in, Dernier retreating back to the car to get his explosives and Sam staying put to watch him warily.

Bucky turns away from them as they move in and spot Nat at the table, making a beeline for her and sounding concerned. Nat is waving them away with a scowl, but she lets them fuss for a moment, which is almost a miracle.

Bucky tries to avoid following Steve's every move, keeping him in his peripheral, but needing to keep his mind on his job. His own people are hurting too, and he is the boss now. He needs to step up. He needs to be more… More than the son who never gets it right. More than the soldier who can’t think for himself. More than the boy who lost so much, and never bothered to find it.

He just… doesn’t know where to start.

What is it they need from him?

Nat needs to heal, but Bucky knows she won't listen to him if he asks her to go to bed. Sam is waiting for Maria and Clint to arrive so they can make a plan. But Pietro and Wanda are lost, waiting for their next instruction, and Bucky can see Pietro listing, knows it's beyond time to get him lying down. 

‘Wanda, why don’t I help you get Pietro upstairs and into bed?’

‘Yeah,’ Wanda says, sighing with relief, ‘He needs to rest.' She looks over at Sam and Steve as they stand vaguely near each other and speak softly in the kitchen. 'I might sit with him for a bit, if you don't need me down here.’

‘You should, ' Bucky says gently, clasping her arm softly, 'Clint and Maria are on their way. And then we can make plans. I’ll let you know when we know.’

He helps her lift a grumbling Pietro, who's not happy about being put to bed ‘like a baby’.

‘Shush Petya,’ Wanda says, patting him on the head, ‘Little boys need their rest.’

‘Shut up,’ he says back, but there’s no heat in it, just affection. And Bucky thinks of his own sister fleetingly, pushing her memories away as he helps Pietro down into bed. He doesn’t have her anymore. It will do him no good to dwell on that now.

'The bathroom's just through here,' Bucky says, showing Wanda the door into the ensuite, 'There are clean washcloths and towels under the vanity, feel free to use whatever you need.'

'Thank you for this, Bucky,' Wanda says, laying a hand on Pietro's shoulder, and sitting down carefully beside him. She says it like Bucky is saving them. Like it's not entirely Bucky's fault that she and her brother are hurting at all. 

Like Bucky isn’t the monster that has trapped them here in the first place.

He backs his way to the hallway. 'Just yell out if you need anything, okay?' 

'I will,' Wanda pulls a phone from her pocket and places it on the nightstand. 'You should get back downstairs, Bucky, they need you.'

Bucky gives them a last wave, though Pietro’s eyes are already closed, and shuts the door.

He wonders if they  _ do _ need him downstairs. 

They need the house… they need the safety and the resources. But do they need  _ Bucky _ ?

When his father had given him the house it had been big, old. It needed love. And he had spent a lot of his first year back from service getting it fixed. Having it made into something beautiful. A transition that couldn't be made on himself quite so easily. 

And now... now it means he has enough room for all of them. Some of them will need to stay awake and keep watch. They can take shifts. And someone should go to be on watch at the club. They can take shifts with that too.

It’s not that late yet. It feels like such a long time, but really it's been less than two hours since the meeting. Since the ambush. It’s barely ten o’clock.

It feels like it should be so much later.

When Bucky gets back downstairs it's a different sight he’s graced with. Gone are the hesitant faces, the military stances, the posturing. And in its place, comfort, family - a calm has settled on the room. Bucky sighs with relief. It’s a weight off his shoulders to know that at least in this they can be together.

He can smell the tea Steve has been steeping, can smell the whiskey in it. He can see Steve’s men sitting around Nat at the table and cupping mugs between their hands. Warming them and giving them something to hold. Giving them something to connect them. 

Maria and Clint have arrived and taken up stations at the kitchen counter. Bucky is happy to see that they also have mugs of Steve’s tea, and are chatting quietly with Sam. Steve is standing close by them but he looks lost. He looks so lost Bucky’s steps falter.

This is everything Steve never wanted. And now the happy life he’d built for himself is falling apart, practically at Bucky’s fingertips. There has to be something he can do to help him now. Help him right now. Get him to rest, get him to sit, get him to drink some of his own tea and take five fucking minutes to breathe. 

He nods his head at Nat and her merry men. He passes them by and heads towards Sam. Bucky can overhear him explaining to Clint and Maria that they need men standing watch at the club, that they need someone out front to keep an eye on the street outside the house. That they’ll need someone in the backyard as well. 

This is Sam’s bread and butter. He knows this, knows what he’s doing. Bucky was good at doing what he was told, pointing where they told him to point, shooting where they told him to shoot, but Sam is a tactician. A good one. 

Even Bucky’s father thought so. 

And George Barnes was a hard man to please.

‘Do you want to draw straws? What are you thinking?’ Bucky asks as he sidles up beside them, leaning his hip against the counter and resting on it with one elbow. The sleeves of the hoodie he’s wearing are too long, hang past his wrists and to his fingers. He tucks his thumb in and draws the material around his hands, feeling a sense of safety in the gesture. 

Steve is so big now. Bucky would have never imagined…

‘I’m thinking we send some of Steve’s men with Maria and me to the club. I think we put Clint on the front and we put one or two of Steve’s men on the back door. And then when Wanda is up she can take over from Clint, Steve’s boys can switch themselves out, and Maria and I will figure out where to go from where we are when the time comes.’ Sam looks at Bucky, waiting for confirmation.

Bucky gives it to him with a nod. 

‘I should go to the club,’ Steve says, stepping forward. He’s a foot further back than the others and he looks so anxious, bobbing up and down on his feet and fidgeting with his hands, clenching them into fists, putting them in and taking them out of his pockets. It’s difficult to watch.

‘I need you here,’ Bucky says, before anyone else can get a word in, ‘I need you here in case someone takes a turn for the worse.’ And he knows it's not fair, but he also knows he can’t let Steve go to that club. ‘You said yourself that Nat and Pietro should be in a hospital, they’re too injured to be left here without you.’

‘They are,’ Steve says, biting into his lips, so much pressure there that Bucky is afraid the skin will split, ‘But what if Brock shows up?’

‘We won’t be doing anything yet,’ Maria says, so calm, her voice always so even, ‘We’ll be keeping watch and that's all. We want to be sure he doesn’t try to raze the place to the ground. Or break in…’

‘He won’t damage it, he wants to take it,’ Steve says, looking down at Maria with narrowed eyes, ‘It’s like a prize for him.’

‘That does sound like Brock,’ Clint says, nodding in agreement, ‘But we still don’t know enough to take any action against him.’

Steve is clenching his fists again. The veins in his forearms are bulging. His pea coat is hanging up somewhere and he’s still in the grey knit sweater that he’s been wearing all night. Covered in blood and grime. His sleeves pushed up to just below his elbow. But he doesn’t voice his discontent, doesn’t argue. 

‘Finding out what Brock’s next move is will give us half of the answers we’re looking for,’ Sam says, looking at Steve, his voice softer, his face calm. He’s in medic mode, wanting to keep Steve from getting too worked up. ‘If he comes to the club with backup, if he tries to make a move on it, we’ll gather there, protect what’s ours. But we can’t take the first shot.’

Steve crosses his arms over that giant expanse of chest. ‘And you’ll call us, if he shows, so we can be there?’

‘I will.’ Sam lays a careful hand on Steve’s forearm. ‘I give you my word.’

Steve nods. He takes it, Sam’s word, without question. 

‘We should go now,’ Maria says, putting down her mug and pulling her dark hair up into a bun, ‘Peter says the staff are mostly gone. Security have cleared the club and are standing guard waiting to hear from you, Bucky.’

‘We’re keeping them on?’ Bucky asks. He wants the added manpower, he wants Brock to not notice anything is wrong until he’s too close. But he also doesn’t want to put more people’s lives at risk.

‘They asked to stay.’ Clint puts his own mug down and looks at Bucky, his blond hair a mess, a butterfly bandage over a perpetually bruised nose. ‘They know what they’re doing. They want to help.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Bucky looks at Steve. ‘You want to see which of your men are up for watching the club, and which want to stay here and keep eyes on the back of the house?’

And Steve doesn’t even ask, he glances over at the table, where the discussion has been stopped for a while now, and the occupants are all watching the conversation take place in the kitchen. ‘Gabe and Jac can go with Sam and Maria to the club. Jim can watch the back. Monty needs to sleep.’

‘I don’t-’ Monty tries to protest, attempting to get up from his chair.

Jim Morita pushes him back down firmly but carefully. ‘Rest now and you can take over in the early morning,’ he says gently, ‘It’ll be just like the old days.’

And Falsworth closes his eyes with a scowl, but he allows himself to be pushed. Leans back in the chair with defeat.

Gabe and Jac are already up from the table and strapping weapons on. Bucky is both impressed and alarmed that they have taken Steve’s direction without any push back. 

But, Bucky supposes, Steve has known these men his whole life. They trusted Sarah with a kind of devoutness that the other families envied. It seems as though they will trust her son just the same. 

Maria has her own weapons already on, she puts a trench on over her shoulder holster. Sam does the same, he’s grabbed Bucky's bomber jacket from the mudroom and pulled it over the henley that’s covered in the glitter Bucky just associates with Sam’s nights in the club now. And the four of them convene at the door to the kitchen, looking back at the rest of the group with serious faces.

‘Keep your phones on,’ Sam says as he zips his jacket, ‘Let’s try and keep in constant contact, check in every half hour.’

The others nod. Jones pulls on his knit cap and Dernier a maroon beret. Maria wraps a scarf around her neck. 

And then they’re gone. 

Steve is leaning back against the counter, arms still crossed. Morita walks over to him and lays a hand on his shoulder. So many small gestures of comfort, Bucky is overwhelmed at the kind of care Steve incites in people. 

‘I’ll go do a perimeter check with Clint,’ he looks over and Clint nods in confirmation, ‘And then I’ll be out the back. Come out if you need me. Look after Falsworth. He looks like he’s about to pass out.’

‘I’m bloody not, feck off,’ Falsworth says from the table, but it’s lacking any heat. He sounds exhausted.

Morita raises his eyebrows at Steve with a small smile and Steve smiles back. Not with his eyes, but the corner of his mouth turns up with the replica of a smile. And Morita takes it for what it is. Nods at Steve and then gets his coat on, heads to the back door with Clint as they talk about the layout and security of the house. 

Bucky has it pretty well decked out, cameras and spotlights, video that will feed to, well, Bucky’s phone actually, which he lost in the restaurant, which is useless to him now. But Clint knows the drill, he’ll reroute the signal to his own phone. 

It’s Nat he needs to worry about now. And of course she knows what he’s thinking, always reading his damn mind, because before he can say a thing-

‘I suppose you want me resting,’ she says, looking up at Bucky from her seat at the table. 

Bucky is actually surprised that she hasn’t put up a fight yet. 

‘I’m not going to argue with you, Yasha,’ she says, eyes boring into Bucky’s, ‘I’ll rest for now. But I’ll be awake soon, and I’ll be coming down to replace Clint.’

‘Alright,’ Bucky says, hesitant. He wonders if there’s some kind of catch. Wonders whether she’s just placating him, and will be up again as soon as his back is turned. But he also knows there’s probably not a lot he can do about it. The only one of them with any ability to sweet talk Natalia Romanova is Clint Barton. However they know each other, he has a hold on her.

It goes both ways.

‘Good. And you should be getting Steven to rest too. Best he gets as much rest as he can before the shit hits the fan tonight.’

‘You think it will?’ Bucky asks. 

‘I do.’

Bucky looks back over at Steve, who is talking softly with Monty. He has an idea about the best way to get Steve to rest. He looks back at Nat who nods at him and starts to get up from her chair, waving away Bucky’s offered hand of help. 

‘Steve?’ Bucky asks, getting Steve’s attention, ‘Would you like me to take you and Monty upstairs, show you where you can rest?’

Steve and Monty share a look and then Steve turns back to Bucky, smiles softly, ‘That would be great actually, thanks Bucky.’

Nat follows slowly behind them as they head up the stairs, And Bucky turns them to the right of the landing, where the hallway leads off into three bedrooms.

The first bedroom on the right has Wanda and Pietro, the two other guest bedrooms on this level are next to and opposite it, and Bucky’s master suite opens from the other side of the stairway. The fifth bedroom is upstairs again with the rec room and another kitchen. 

He shows them to the first door on the left.

‘This will work for you, Monty, Morita will be able to get up to you and switch places without disturbing anyone.’ Bucky opens the door for Monty and waits while he and Steve pass him to enter. ‘There’s a bathroom attached, you can have a shower, get changed and then rest. I’ll text Morita to let him know where you are.’ He may not have his own phone but he still has Steve’s.

Monty nods and puts the bag that the guys had brought him onto the bed. He then follows suit and sits, sinking down into the mattress. ‘I do need to get clean, Stevie. Can you let me have a minute just to shower?’

‘Monty, take a few hours, lie down. Please,’ Steve says, pleading with Monty, ‘I need you not to pass out cold on me.’

He’s stealing Bucky’s words to Nat from earlier. Smart, because of course that's the only thing he can say to get his man to actually take a break. When they turn around, Nat is opening the door of the bedroom next to theirs.

‘I’m going to head in and get a couple hours before Clint needs me. Can you let him know where I am too?’ she asks.

Bucky nods his head. He still can’t quite believe that Nat is being this voluntarily amenable. 

‘Don’t run the water too hot,’ Steve says, looking at Nat with sincerity, ‘You need to keep your body temperature up, but you also don’t want to increase your blood flow too much, so just keep the temperature mild, okay?’

‘Sure, Steven, I can do that,’ and the look on her face is absolute innocence. Bucky knows it's total bullshit. He also doesn’t want to question it right now. He doesn’t have time for Nat’s games.

Steve doesn’t look like he fully believes her either, but she smiles sweetly and waves at them as she starts to shut the door, ‘You boys leave me to rest now okay, go look after each other.’

And  _ oh _ . He sees what she’s doing. He could kiss her. 

‘Okay, just be careful-’ Steve is saying, but Nat has already closed the door on him and his words falter into nothing as he stares after her abrupt dismissal.

‘She’ll be okay,’ Bucky says, gently wrapping his fingers around Steve’s bicep and turning him around to the other end of the hallway. ‘Let me get you settled in this room so you can be close enough to hear them if something happens.’

And as they open the door into the master suite, Steve looks around with a frown. ‘Isn’t this your room, Jimmy?’

Bucky tries not to react to the name, the way it takes him back to a time he’s been hiding from for so long. He looks around and sees what Steve sees. The books on the nightstand, the sweats folded on the foot of the bed, the armchair with his favourite knit cardigan hanging over it. This room is lived in, even if Bucky is only here once in a while. To get away from all of the noise and pressure of being his father’s son. 

Something he won't be needing to get away from anymore. 

‘Yeah, but the only other bedroom is upstairs, and that’s Sam’s room.’

‘Oh,’ Steve says, spinning around slowly and getting a good look into all corners of the suite. There’s a huge bathroom and an even bigger closet that opens off the bedroom at the far left. The bed is against the wall to the right of the door and several large (bullet proof) floor to ceiling glass windows overlook the yard on the far wall.

The bed is a California King. There’s plenty of room for both of them.

‘I’ll go down and see Clint, tell him about the bedroom situation, why don’t you jump in the shower? I’ll bring your things up.’

Steve looks back at Bucky as he speaks. He’s still looking so lost. But he nods his head in the end. ‘Yeah, okay. I could use a shower.’ Steve looks down at himself and shudders.

Bucky has to look away from that vulnerability or he won't be able to leave ‘I’ll be right back, okay?’

‘Thanks, Bucky.’

Bucky nods, and leaves the room as Steve shuts the bathroom door. 

By the time he comes back upstairs with Steve’s things, he can hear him. Huge hacking breaths, gasping sobs, and Bucky doesn’t even think, he just bursts into the bathroom, rushes right up to the shower where Steve is crumpled up on the floor, head on his knees, a ball of pain and despair, and Bucky forgets that he’s dressed, forgets that he honestly barely knows this man. He forgets that he’s here without permission, he pulls at the glass door so hard it almost comes off its hinges and he crouches down next to Steve, puts his hands around his shoulders, his knees at Steve's feet, and he wraps his whole body around him.

He rounds his shoulders and tightens his hold and he blocks out the rest of the world, lets the water rain down on him, his cheek resting on the top of Steve’s head, and he shushes him, soft shushing noises that mean nothing more than to soothe, to comfort. 

‘Steve, oh Stevie, it’s going to be okay,’ he whispers, carding his fingers through the hair at the back of Steve’s head. ‘It’s okay, you're okay.’

Steve doesn’t speak but he reaches up with his hands and he clutches at Bucky. He rakes his hands up Bucky’s sweater and grabs at Bucky’s face, pulling his head down so that their foreheads meet. He holds his hands there, pressed firmly into the sides of Bucky’s face, and he sobs. His head is shaking with them, huge rasping sobs. Bucky’s head is shaking with them too. And Bucky just holds on. Holds on for dear life. 

He can’t let him go. 

Not this time.

And Steve cries and cries. The water runs down on them both and they don't even notice. Not until Steve’s cries start to slow, his breath starts to ease into hitched gasps of air. He loosens his hold on Bucky’s face and drops his head to Bucky’s chest. Bucky pulls him close. Sits down onto the floor of the shower cross legged and pulls Steve into this lap. Cradles his head against his chest. And he rocks him back and forth. Shush, shush, shushing him all the while. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, Stevie,’ over and over again like a mantra.

Bucky doesn’t know how long it takes but eventually the shaking eases, and Steve has stopped.

‘Jimmy?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s starting to get cold.’

‘Oh shit,’ Bucky says, suddenly feeling it too. He lifts Steve up with him as he gets to his feet, and reaches around him to shut the water off. ‘Jesus, Stevie you must be freezing. Come on, come on, let me get you a towel.’

Steve doesn’t answer except to nod his head. He lets Bucky grab the towel and wrap it around him. Lets him grab a second towel and start to dry off his hair. Just lets himself be led back out to the bedroom. 

Bucky can’t step out onto the carpet, dripping as he is in his soaked clothes. He pulls the hoodie and the shirt underneath off over his head and throws them onto the floor, he strips out of his pants and kicks them away. His boxer briefs too - wet as they are - and then reaches back to grab the last towel to wrap around his waist.

And when he turns back to Steve, Steve is just watching him. He’s staring at Bucky with those ice blue eyes. His mouth open, his hands gripping the towel around his chest. He looks Bucky up and down and then back to his eyes and he swallows. Runs his tongue out over his lip. And Bucky is struck by the memory of their moment in the club. It seems like a lifetime ago. But he remembers that chemistry. He remembers the way Steve had looked at him. Like he was beautiful. The heat and the hunger - he sees it in Steve’s eyes again now.

But he doesn’t want to push. 

He moves to the bed, past Steve, close but not touching, and he grabs the sweats from the foot of the bed. ‘Can you put these on for me, Stevie?’

Steve takes the clothes and drops his towel. He pulls the sweats on first. Tighter on Steve than they are on Bucky, a little too short in the leg, but they fit okay. Snug around the huge, semi hard cock that Steve doesn’t bother trying to hide. Couldn’t hide, not in those thin sweats, not without underwear.

And Bucky has to look away to bite his lip. He turns back only to catch Steve pulling the singlet down over that chest. It’s ridiculous, it’s huge, just a wide expanse of sun-kissed porcelain, screaming out for Bucky to run his fingers down. To lay his lips on. The material slips down over his muscular stomach and the light trail of blond hair that leads into his sweatpants, the waist that Bucky could fit his hands around.

It's all so beautiful, he can't look away. He needs to look away.

Bucky’s eyes snap back up to meet Steve’s, and Steve is watching him. He's watching Bucky but he's not tentative, or hesitant. He doesn't look lost anymore. Steve is smiling. It’s small, it's barely a curve at the corners of his mouth, but Bucky can see it in his eyes. The way they crinkle. The way they shine with a warmth Bucky has been missing. 

The way they zero in on Bucky like he’s the only thing in the room. 

Bucky swallows. He turns around to hide his elevated breathing. To clench his fists and get a grip on this feeling. Steve has always been like a magnet to him. Has always pulled him in close. And Bucky isn’t sure how to fight it. Doesn't want to. But Steve needs rest right now. He needs comfort, yes, but he needs  _ safety _ . And Bucky… Bucky isn't safe. 

He retreats into the relative dark of the closet and grabs clothes for himself, a pair of cotton sleep pants and a t-shirt, and he pulls them on before returning to the bedroom. He takes the time away to try to centre himself. He can’t let this want consume him. He needs to keep his head. 

Bucky emerges to find Steve sitting on the bed looking back over his shoulder at Bucky. Still watching him. Waiting. 

Bucky bypasses him to pick up the towels and hang them back up in the bathroom. He kicks his wet clothes into the shower to deal with later and looks at his face in the mirror. At the dark circles under his eyes. At the cut across his cheek. At the strain, the stress. The pain. 

He pulls a comb carefully through his knotted hair and leaves it wet. He squares his shoulders and heads back out to Steve, shutting off the lights and closing the door. He's not ready, the want is still thrumming in his blood, vibrating through him. But he's run out of ways to waste time. And Steve needs rest. 

Steve who has not stopped watching him. Tracking Bucky’s every movement as he gets closer. Looking up at Bucky as he stops to stand over him. Looking up at him with so much trust.

Bucky gently pulls at Steve’s arm to move him up the bed, so pliant, so passive, no resistance. Bucky untucks the covers from underneath him and then pushes Steve back, crawling in next to him, uses his fingertips to guide him gently to the middle of the bed. 

Bucky tucks his body around Steve and pulls him in tight against his chest, bends his knees in behind Steve’s knees and splays his hand out over Steve’s heart. He rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder. 

'It's time to rest now, Stevie.'

Steve doesn't answer but he slides his hand up to curl over Bucky’s. 

Bucky lets the beat of Steve’s heart lull him into calmness. He lets their breathing fall into sync. And they lay together like that, lungs breathing, hearts beating, until Bucky is almost asleep.

That's when Steve pulls free. He turns himself over and places his hand on Bucky’s cheek. Runs a finger through Bucky’s wet hair, tucking it behind his ear.

‘If I ask you for something Bucky, will you do it?’ Steve asks, ‘Will you give it to me?’

‘Anything,’ Bucky says, coming awake slowly, opening his eyes to Steve so close. But he would. He would give him anything.

And Steve shifts closer, brings his lips right to Bucky’s lips and whispers, ‘Will you touch me?’

Bucky wants to dive into Steve. Wants to drown in him. 

He nods his head. 

He will. Of course he will. 

He’ll give him everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... two chapters to go. Not long now, people.
> 
> Talk to me in the comments, or come find me at [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue) on tumblr


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I need you to touch me,’ Steve says again. He can’t think much beyond that to be honest, he hasn’t thought that far ahead. All he knows is that when Bucky is touching him the world around them disappears. When Bucky touches him the warmth between their bodies gives him something to cling to. It gives him something to long for. And he wants.
> 
> He wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers, we're reaching the end...
> 
> Life has been a little unkind to me lately - so I haven't been around as much as I would have liked - but know that I read and love every comment. I reread them when I need motivation. They give me the strength to keep going sometimes. So thank you so much for your lovely words.
> 
> Thanks to [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for all the help and hand holding. For the brilliant beta work as always.
> 
> And thanks to all of you for being here with me. I'll be sorry to see this one end. It's been such a labour of love...
> 
> I hope you enjoy...

###  Sam

They’ve been here now for about an hour. And Sam can feel that something is wrong.

It’s not like Brock to play it safe. 

It’s not like Brock to wait for the dust to settle.

Sam knows enough about Brock to know that if this was him, if the club was his end game, he would have had someone here to stake their claim almost immediately.

Just like the meeting today. Not subtle, no real thought at all. Just mowing down everyone in the room. Not checking for back exits, not checking the street for the drivers, not taking out any of the CCTV cameras.

Not checking to make sure everyone had been taken out before they burned it to the ground.

Sam is glad, so fucking glad, that Brock is as incompetent as he is. Or they would have lost everything today. He’s aware that it may feel like that to Bucky and Steve, and even to Nat and to Steve’s men right now, that they’ve lost everything. But Brock was sloppy. And so Bucky is alive. And the Rogers family knows that it wasn’t the Barnes’ that did this. 

But all of that leads Sam to ask: where the fuck is he now? Where is that fucker Rollins that Brock has tied to his hip lately?

And why does he feel like they’ve made a tactical error here?

‘Could you stop that?’ Maria says, voice flat, eyes on the street. 

‘Stop what, I’m not doing anything?’ Sam asks, looking down at his legs, at his hands, all still and held tight and tense as he watches the building below.

‘You’re thinking too fucking loud.’

Sam looks over at Maria and she isn’t looking at him, she has her own binoculars trained on the end of the street, watching the incoming traffic. But she’s smiling. 

Sam huffs a laugh in response. He shakes his head and gets back to watching the entrance. Steve’s men, Jones and Dernier, are on the roof of the building behind the club, and they are silent on comms.

They’re good at this, from what he can see in the scope, what he can hear over the comms. At standing post, keeping watch. Sam wonders if they have any military training.

He doesn’t want to ask though. He knows he hates having to give that answer. Not fair to make somebody else do the same. 

‘I don’t like this,’ Sam finally voices. He can’t keep it to himself. Something feels too wrong.

‘It’s too quiet,’ Dernier agrees over the radio, French accent thickening the words, ‘Brock is too impulsive to let it go this long.’

‘If it was me, I’d be laying low right now. I’d be scoping the place out once I had a better lay of the land,’ Jones says, his voice soft and deep. 

‘Yes but it’s not you,’ Dernier says back, snaps it fast and sharp, ‘That’s the point, Gabe, Brock is not you, Brock is a reckless asshole.’

‘You really think this was Brock?’ Jones says, and Sam can see him looking over at them across the rooftops.

Sam rolls the answer over on his tongue for a minute, wonders what he really does think about it.

‘I do,’ he says finally, glancing back to Maria and then turning back to look out at the others, ‘We knew he was up to something. When he didn’t retaliate for Bucky knocking him on his ass at the club. When he never said anything to Barnes Senior.’

Sam knew it then and he knows it now. Brock is trouble. And his impetuosity only makes him more dangerous.

‘We knew when there was no pushback that he was planning something. But George never wanted to know about anything. Always annoyed the shit out of Buck.’ Sam shakes his head, tries to shake those thoughts loose. ‘I should have pushed him harder to say something about it to his old man.’

‘I doubt it would have made much difference,’ Maria says, weighing in on the conversation but keeping her eyes still firmly on the street. ‘We all know what George was like. Stubborn. You could have told him anything about Brock and he would've told you Bucky was paranoid. Bucky was jealous. We’ve heard it before.’

‘George Barnes was an asshole too,’ Dernier says into the speaker, ‘God rest his soul.’

Sam and Maria nod along. It’s no secret what George Barnes was.

‘But Brock  _ loved _ Sarah. Didn’t he?’ Jones is asking, still sounding lost, ‘He’s always had a thing for Stevie, I just don’t… I don’t understand why he would do this?’

‘He loved the money more than he loved Sarah,’ Dernier says quietly, ‘He wanted power. That’s why he left, don’t you remember?’

Jones goes quiet, but Sam and Maria don’t know, and Maria looks up from the street to where Dernier is watching them, her eyebrows raised.

‘He wanted her to start charging the families for protection. He wanted to make more from the services he and Rollins were offering, keeping the other families away from Sarah’s streets. Keeping the mob politics out of their restaurants.’

‘And Sarah didn’t want that,’ Jones adds. Whispering the words into the speaker as he turns his face away, ‘Sarah wanted them kept safe because it was the right thing to do. She wanted all of us safe. We are- were family.’

‘Like I said, Brock is an asshole.’

‘Yeah, I guess he was,’ Sam sees Jones wipe his eyes on the sleeve of his Mets sweater, ‘ _ Is _ . I guess he is.’

‘So where is he, then?’

He can see Dernier pull a phone out of his pocket and checks the screen, ‘He’s not bothering any of ours,’ he says, ‘I’ve heard nothing from anyone about trouble, and I’ve got people everywhere, keeping eyes out.’

‘It’s just too damn quiet,’ Sam says. 

The words are barely out before Maria whispers fiercely, ‘Eyes up.’

A car is turning into the street. A jeep, followed by a van. Black. Big. And slowing down to park in a loading zone, four storefronts down from the club. Sam switches out binoculars for his rifle and he keeps his scope trained on the car. 

'Be ready, boys, this looks like them,' Sam says into the radio, 'Hold position.'

It’s still surveillance for now; they don’t know what this is. Not yet.

Dernier is crouched on his rooftop, attaching flash bombs to his person, and it’s driving Sam to grit his teeth. Jones is looking down at the street with his phone in one hand and his binoculars in the other. The atmosphere has shifted immediately from quiet introspection to barely contained violence. 

And this is how it starts.

Men emerge from the vehicles. Dressed in dark colours, hoods, hats, knit caps. There are no weapons in their hands but Sam can see them under jackets, in waist bands. These guys are here to make trouble.

‘I count seven.’ Maria has her rifle out as well, is watching them through the scope just as Sam is, ‘Guys,’ she says into the radio in her hand, ‘Heads up we’ve got incoming.’

Sam's guys Jack and Dylan are on the door. They have flac vests and they have weapons, Bucky wanted to keep them as safe as possible, but it won't be enough against seven armed men attempting to break in. Jack has his phone to his ear and nods at Maria’s words.

‘I want you to back off the minute it looks like they might try to fight past you, understood?’

Jack nods in understanding, and Sam gets eyes back on the incoming group. He doesn’t like it, wants to get down there. But they need to wait. There are still people on the street. There are traffic cameras. There are consequences to them showing their hand too soon.

But as soon as the men reach the club doors, Sam knows waiting was a mistake. The first of the men to come at Dylan draws his gun. He hits him in the chest and Sam doesn’t hesitate to flip the safety on his rifle, aim, and shoot back. It’s a headshot. The guy goes down. But so do all the others. They take cover. And Jack pulls Dylan into the building, to try and find safety. Dernier is off the roof and on his way down, Jones probably hot on his heels. 

'I'm calling this in,' Jones says over coms, 'We need back up.'

Sam doesn't know if he's calling Morita or Steve, and doesn't have time to ask. If they can get Brock isolated then it won't matter. They can get him somewhere and Bucky and Steve can meet them there.

Maria is on the phone too, ‘Clint, they’re here. They’re making a move,’ and Sam can’t hear Clint's response but it’s short. Maria is already off the call and on another as Sam continues to keep his scope trained on the front door.

'The back is clear,' Dernier barks into comes, 'We're coming round to the front.'

Sam looks over to check in with Maria, ‘Clint’s gonna mobilise the others? They’re coming?’

‘They’re coming,’

‘Okay, I’ll keep cover on you from up here. We need to get them cleared out before the cops get here. And we need Brock alive.’

Maria nods and takes off. Sam could probably take them out from up here, but what they really want is to catch Brock, keep the club from being too damaged, and not have to clean up any bodies before the police get here.

They already have one, courtesy of Sam.

Dernier has obviously arrived; the flash bomb sends the group scattering. Jack and Dylan are already inside. The doors are locked. And Jones appears out of nowhere, mask on and fists flying, and he takes out two more, before he takes a hit to the back. He’s wearing a vest so it won’t kill him, but Sam knows it will hurt like a son of a bitch. He fires a couple of rounds to scatter them again. And Dernier has someone in a headlock, Jones is back up and taking out another man. Maria has the last two immobilized in seconds and is on her phone before the last guy's head has hit the ground. 

And Sam’s phone is ringing.

‘Yeah?’ he answers.

‘Brock’s not here!’ Maria is calling into the speaker. Breathless, ‘Sam, Brock’s not here, and neither is Rollins.’

‘Where are they?’ Sam asks, almost to himself.

‘I don’t know, but Clint’s on his way here with Nat, they didn’t want to wake the others, he said they were busy…’

‘Maria, what? Where is Bucky?’

‘Bucky’s at the house, with Steve.’

And Clint and Nat are on their way here. 

Sam packs his gun and starts to run. He takes the fire escape to the street level with his phone to his ear, his pack over his shoulder. The number he has for Bucky is the number he rang Sam from earlier. Steve’s phone. And it's ringing.

And ringing.

And no one is answering. 

  
  
  


###  Steve

Steve has his lips so close to Bucky’s lips he can feel them. Can feel the air passing through them, can feel the warmth of his breath.

But he doesn’t want to press forward without Bucky’s permission. He doesn’t want to take something that Bucky might not want to give him…

But Bucky says ‘Anything,’ like he means it. Like he would give Steve the world. And Steve doesn’t know if it's fair, or if it's right. But they don't know what tonight will bring. They don't know how much time they have left to them, or who will be left alive after they make their stand. This might be all they have. This, right now, might be all Steve gets of Bucky.

He’s going to try and take it all.

‘I want you to touch me,’ he says, running his fingers through Bucky’s wet hair, tucking the strand behind his ear. ‘Will you touch me, Bucky?’

Bucky is staring at Steve. It's too dark in this room to see him clearly, his eyes dark grey in the low light. And slowly, so slowly, Bucky nods his head.

Steve closes his eyes to the answer. He takes a deep breath. He opens them again as Bucky brings his hand up to Steve’s face. He watches Bucky as he pushes himself up on an elbow and hovers over Steve. He forgets to breathe as Bucky runs a finger down his cheek, down over his jaw, down his throat, his collar bones, to the neck of the singlet he’s wearing. Bucky’s singlet. 

His nerves light up under the touch of that finger, leaving a trail of static behind them, raising the hair on his skin, and he shivers against it. 

‘Stevie?’ Bucky says, looking down at Steve, his hair curling at the ends, his lips slightly parted, his eyes pinning Steve to the mattress.

‘Bucky.’

‘What do you need?’

‘I need you to touch me,’ Steve says again. He can’t think much beyond that to be honest, he hasn’t thought that far ahead. All he knows is that when Bucky is touching him the world around them disappears. When Bucky touches him the warmth between their bodies gives him something to cling to. It gives him something to long for. And he wants. He wants so desperately to feel all of that weight, that strength, that steadiness. He wants it to press him down. He wants it to ground him and keep him safe. He wants it to reach into the depths of him and fill him, make him full. Make him whole. 

‘How do you want me to touch you, Stevie? Gentle? You want me to touch you soft? Like this?’ And Bucky runs his hands down Steve’s chest, over the material of the singlet, brushing his nipple so barely that it sings at the denied promise of attention. He traces it down Steve’s stomach to his hips, so softly he can only feel the press of the air between them. And his fingertips catch at the hem of the shirt, slide up underneath it, and start to trace their way back up.

Steve arches into the touch. His body does it by instinct. It reaches out for Bucky before Steve even knows to think it. Bucky doesn’t break the contact but he pulls back just enough to keep from exerting any pressure. Keeps that touch feather light. Keeps it teasing across Steve’s skin. 

‘Bucky, please,’ Steve pleads, a whisper, his body reaching up for him still.

‘What’s wrong, Stevie,’ Bucky says, smiling down at Steve, eyes hooded, the lamp on the nightstand behind him has his beautiful face in a silhouette. He drags his fingers delicately up underneath his shirt, circling Steve’s nipple.

‘Please touch me.’

‘I am touching you, sweetheart,’ he says, and he brings his lips so close to Steve’s ear, a kiss of warm breath, ‘Can’t you feel me?’

‘Bucky. Please?’ Steve sounds wrecked already. They haven’t even started yet. ‘I need more.’

‘More huh?’ Bucky says, and he pulls his hand back from under Steve’s singlet, Steve whining at the loss of it. ‘I did promise you anything, didn’t I?’

Steve nods his head, erratic and messy. And Bucky pulls his whole body away, rising up to the full extension of his arm and then swinging his leg over Steve’s stomach to straddle him.

‘I keep my promises, Stevie.’ Bucky reaches his hands down to the hem of Steve’s shirt and tugs it lightly up, up over Steve’s chest, Steve helping Bucky get it free by lifting his arms so that Bucky can pull it off over his head. 

Bucky tosses the shirt to the floor and then strokes his hands down Steve’s chest. His eyes, dark and hooded in the low light, are fixed to Steve’s body. Steve brings his hands down to rest on Bucky’s thighs. Thick and strong beneath the soft material of his sleep pants. 

‘You want me to take care of you, Stevie? I could take such good care of you sweetheart. If you want that?’

‘Please, Bucky,’ Steve says, tightening his hold on Bucky’s thighs, squeezing out his enthusiasm there. 

‘I want you to just lie back and relax, okay?’ Bucky says, and he runs his hands down to Steve’s hands, brings his thumbs up under Steve’s palms and rubs circles into them as he lifts them. ‘Put your hands here for me, darlin’?’

Steve nods as Bucky pushes his arms back into the mattress on either side of Steve’s head. Bucky holds them there as he slides himself down Steve's body, spreading his knees out wide. His cock lines up against Steve’s cock, both of them hard now, both of them wanting this.

Bucky rolls his body down as he shifts closer, lets the weight of his frame fall onto Steve, pressing him down. And Steve is surrounded by him, his warmth and his bulk and the smell of him, the softness. He can feel the beat of Bucky’s heart against his chest. Bucky’s hands holding his as he weighs him down. 

He wants to get lost in this.

Steve turns his face into Bucky’s face and Bucky doesn’t shy away. He runs his nose up along Steve’s cheek until their foreheads are touching. Until their lips are so close they’re breathing the same air. And Bucky takes that tiny step closer, presses his lips with just that fraction more intention, and he lets his mouth meet Steve’s in a soft gentle kiss.

Steve opens up to it, reaches his head up to push back against Bucky, to taste him, to let him in. And that releases something in Bucky, because suddenly his grip on Steve’s hands tightens, the weight of his body on Steve pushes harder and further into the bed, and he opens his mouth to Steve. His tongue is soft against Steve’s tongue, his teeth nipping gently into Steve's lips.

And Steve sighs into it. Into Bucky. He lets go, sinks back into the bed and Bucky follows him, kissing him, Steve kissing back. This. This is what he wanted, to be consumed, to be held down, to be taken care of.

To let go.

'Stevie,' Bucky whispers into Steve's mouth, 'Darlin'? Can I get my mouth on you? Would you like that?'

Steve nods. The power of speech completely leaves him at the thought of Bucky's mouth on his cock.

He kisses Steve again, deeper, hungrier, and then trails his lips down to Steve's chin, down his jaw to his throat, kissing and sucking his way down Steve's throat to his collar bone, wrapping his teeth around the bone there and biting gently. 

He releases Steve's hands as he travels further and further down Steve's body. Runs his hands softly down Steve’s sides to the waistband of his pants following the same path with his mouth, kissing and biting at Steve's bare skin. 

'You're so beautiful Steve,' Bucky says between kisses, 'Always so fucking beautiful.'

And Steve wants to say the same to Bucky, wants to sing it, shout it, but his body is on fire, he's melting into the mattress under Bucky's tongue, and he doesn't have the capacity to use words at all. His breathing is getting heavy and his hips are bucking up into Bucky as his head gets lower and lower, as his teeth nip at Steve's hipbone. As his hands start to pull down the material of the sweatpants Steve’s wearing.

Bucky pulls them down slowly, gently, and as they pass up and over Steve’s cock it springs free, bobbing back up to sit hard against his thigh. Bucky tosses Steve's sweats to the floor and leans back down to press his tongue under his balls at the sensitive skin behind, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath, thrusts up into Bucky’s face.

Bucky huffs a laugh and pushes Steve's hips down with his hands. 'How bout you keep these still and don't choke me with your monster cock, hey, Sweetheart? Jesus you got big,' he says as he looks up Steve's body.

And Steve wants to be still, but it feels so good. He can't help the involuntary movements he's making.

'Oh, I'm going to have to hold you down, aren't I?' Bucky says, and Steve lets out a breathless whimper at the idea of Bucky pressing his hips back into the mattress while he sinks his lips around Steve's cock.

Bucky puts a little more pressure on Steve’s hips with his hands, not too much, nothing painful, just enough for Steve to know that he’s taking control. That he’s letting Steve let go. That if Steve tries to rock up into Bucky, Bucky will be able to push him back down.

Bucky will take care of him.

Steve can feel Bucky’s breath on his thigh, and then lips are pressing into his skin. Bucky’s tongue flicks out and then his lips close over the spot, his teeth nip into it and he sucks the flesh of Steve’s thigh into his mouth. He makes his way like that, sucking and biting, up to the crease of Steve’s thigh, into the skin at his pubic bone, and he nuzzles his nose up to Steve’s cock, sliding down the shaft and then taking the tip in his mouth. 

Steve bucks his hips, but Bucky has a firm hold on them, the movement doesn’t take him anywhere. He clenches his hands as they lay either side of his head, they itch to reach down and touch, they clutch at the air, and Steve can’t stop himself from lifting them down to Bucky's hair, carding his fingers through it and gripping hold. It’s damp and curling and Steve's fingers drink it in, letting it wrap around them, holding tighter as Bucky opens his mouth and slides down onto Steve’s cock.

Oh god, his mouth is wet and tight and warm. And his tongue is pushing against Steve’s dick and his cheeks are sucking in, it's so much all at once, Steve’s hands clench in Bucky’s hair. His hips try to thrust up into the heat of his mouth but they can't push past the strength of Bucky’s hands. 

Bucky pulls back to slide all the way back down again, his mouth so deep and so far down Steve’s cock, and Steve has his head thrown back against the pillows, has his eyes closed to the sensation of Bucky’s mouth on him, is holding onto Bucky’s hair but not trying to guide him, just trying to hang on. He can feel himself start to get warm, can feel the pressure building low in his gut, and he draws his body in tight, tries to control it, tries to hold onto the build up.

Bucky feels so good. But Steve doesn’t want to come yet. He wants to come with Bucky inside him, he wants Bucky up and around him. ‘Bucky,  _ Jimmy _ ,’ he says, breathless, trying to lift his head up to look down, ‘Wait...’

Bucky immediately pulls off to look up at Steve, ‘What’s wrong?’ he says, eyes wide in the darkness, ‘You okay?

‘Yeah, I’m good, it’s good, I want...’ he struggles to get the words right, ‘Feels too good.’

‘You don’t want to come yet?’ Bucky interprets for him and Steve nods gratefully. Bucky crawls back up and over Steve, bringing their faces together, leaning his lips down to Steve’s lips, brushing them lightly. ‘You want me to fuck you, Stevie?’ he asks, pressing down for a deeper kiss, then pulling back to drag his lips along Steve’s jaw, up to his ear and then down his throat, ‘You want me to open you up, darlin?’

Steve nods, leaning into Bucky’s touch, chasing the warmth of his lips.

‘I’m not even sure I have any condoms in here, I don’t… I think you might be the first person other than me that's even been in this bedroom.’

Steve smiles into the darkness, reaches up with his hands to cup Bucky’s face. ‘I don’t think we need them,’ Steve says, ‘I know we should, but I just don’t care, Buck. I just want you.’

‘I know you want that, Steve,’ Bucky says, and Steve can feel him shaking his head, ‘But I’m not going to let you make bad decisions because of me.’

‘It’s not, I mean, I don’t… Please let me have this, Jimmy?’

‘Jesus Steve,’ he says and he rests his head down on Steve’s chest, brings his hands up to hold Steve’s hands, pull them away from his face, ‘I can… I could…’ He lets go of Steve to run his hand down Steve’s thigh, up between his legs and to the flesh at his inner thighs. ‘I could fuck you like this, sweetheart?’ he asks, head up and looking down at Steve, eyes flashing in the darkness, ‘I could slide myself in between these beautiful thighs?’

And Steve can feel the heat of his hand between his legs, can imagine what his cock would feel like sliding into that space, hitting at the delicate skin behind his balls. And he’s nodding, ‘Yeah, yes. We could do that, you should do that,’ he says, words coming too fast, too breathless, but he doesn’t care. 

‘Thank you, Stevie,’ Bucky says, leaning in to kiss him softly. Steve catches at his lips, doesn’t let him go, reaches up to pull him down and make it deeper, heavier. 

‘I just want you, Bucky, I just want you.’

‘I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?’ Bucky says, and pulls back to card his fingers through Steve’s hair, ‘I’ll be right back,’ and suddenly the heat of him disappears as Bucky sits up and reaches across the bed to the night stand, Steve can hear him pulling open the drawer. He can hear him rummaging through it. ‘I swear to god I have lube in here,’ he says. And Steve can hear the rummaging get more insistent, more scattered, ‘Come fucking on,’ Bucky says under his breath.

Steve sits up behind him and puts his hands on his shoulders. He sweeps Bucky’s damp, tangled hair to one side and kisses at the nape of his neck. Bucky lets his head fall back, turning into Steve's mouth, letting Steve kiss his way to his lips. Steve slides his hands down the soft cotton of Bucky’s t-shirt and starts to drag at the hem. Lifting it up and over his head.

‘Steve, sweetheart, you’re being very distracting right now,’ Bucky says between kisses, huffing a laugh as Steve nips at his lips, ‘Just let me find the lube for you, baby, so I can slide in nice and sweet for you, make you feel good.’

‘This feels good too,’ Steve says, tracing a fingertip across Bucky’s stomach. The smooth skin, soft around his belly button, 'Feels good just to touch you, Bucky.'

It does. Steve can't get enough of feeling Bucky under his hands, of pressing himself against him, feeling his chest up against Bucky's back. It's the transfer of their body heat, the safety of the bulk of him, the hard, broad, width of his shoulders, the sweet saltiness of Bucky's sweat on Steve’s lips. It sings to him, this comfort. And he's struck once again by how much he wants to keep this. 

He lets Bucky rummage through the drawer while he rests his head on his bare shoulder, tightens his hands around Bucky's waist, and just as Bucky lets out a pleased, 'Ah ha!' they hear a crack. It snaps their heads to the bedroom door and Bucky is up, reaching for the empty nightstand, turning to Steve with a look of horror.

His gun must be downstairs, or in the bathroom with his clothes and his phone, soaking wet and discarded on the floor.

'Wait here for me,' Bucky says, striding to the door.

Steve grabs his pants from the floor to pull them on, tripping through the legs as he jogs after him, 'No, I'm coming.'

Bucky spins and puts a hand out, 'No,' his eyes are wide, 'Please, wait here.'

He should have known. He should have known he wouldn't get to have this. Bucky has his arm outstretched to stop Steve pressing forward when the door is flung open from behind him, and Bucky turns and jumps back, throws his arms wide, his back to Steve, blocking his view to the door.

But Steve can see around him. Reaches for him, to pull him back out of harm's way as he sees the figure standing in the doorway, gun trained on them, mouth twisted and snarling, eyes almost black in the low light of the bedroom.

It's Brock.

And Steve feels frozen, paralysed, as he sees the flash of the barrel and hears the crack of the shot.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry...
> 
> Please come yell with me in the comments...
> 
> Or come find me at [darter-blue](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/darter-blue) on tumblr (drop an ask in my box, I'll answer pretty much anything I promise)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is on the ground. His chest is on fire, his shoulder, his arm. But at the same time he feels strangely numb.
> 
> He can hear shouting but it’s muted. He can hear ringing in his own ears. 
> 
> He wants to cough but it’s hard. It hurts. 
> 
> His eyes are open, maybe, but nothing seems to be in focus… It’s dark. Was it always this dark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.
> 
> This is it.
> 
> The grand finale.
> 
> Proceed with caution, this chapter is a little violent. It's a little gritty. 
> 
> I hope you like it...
> 
> Thanks to [Bex (Becassine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) for all the help and hand holding. For the brilliant beta as always.
> 
> And to [Kel (Kalee60)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60) for putting up with my bullshit. Its a tough job, and you do it with so much grace (always). 
> 
> as always, if you love it, come talk to me in the comments 😘 I love to hear from you.

### Bucky

Bucky is on the ground. His chest is on fire, his shoulder, his arm. But at the same time he feels strangely numb.

He can hear shouting but it’s muted. He can hear ringing in his own ears. 

He wants to cough but it’s hard. It hurts. 

His eyes are open, maybe, but nothing seems to be in focus… It’s dark. Was it always this dark? Had he and Steve... he and Steve had been in here. 

Yes.

And they… they had been in bed… 

But now he’s on the floor.

He tries to get up, but he’s so numb still. Like pins and needles everywhere. Like his whole body’s gone to sleep…

Sound starts to sharpen around him as he tries to push up on his elbow, and a sudden searing pain shoots up into his shoulder, down into his chest., 

He falls back. 

He’s staring up at Steve, and Steve is looking down at him, his face is bright with pain, tight with fear, and he’s crying again. Bucky has to shake his head to hear words he’s saying.

‘Bucky, baby, Buck, don’t move, don’t move, okay, please don’t move.’

Bucky tries to reach up an arm to him, touch a hand to that beautiful face and smooth the worry away, but he can’t really move at all. It’s scary actually. It’s not right, he doesn’t… this isn’t right…

‘Stevie, you need to come with me,’ Bucky can hear someone from further away, someone whose voice is gruff, angry. ‘He killed your ma, Stevie, I’m here to get you out of here.’

‘You!’ Steve’s voice is like ice clawing down Bucky’s spine. Cold and sharp and biting. ‘You killed her, you did this, Brock.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Brock spits back, it must be Brock, but Bucky can only see the silhouette of him in the doorway, ‘whatever he’s been telling you is a lie. Stevie, you know me. You’ve known me forever. I would never hurt your ma.’

Bucky wants to bristle at that. He feels off, he feels broken somehow, splintered. But he knows what Brock is capable of. All that he’s capable of. Violence. And greed.

And murder.

Bucky can feel it now, the shot, in his shoulder? His chest? He can’t tell. But it’s actually starting to hurt less. And that’s probably bad. 

He’s in trouble.

And Steve. Steve is in trouble too.

_Steve_.

Bucky looks up, and Steve is caught between holding Bucky to him, pulling him slowly backwards along the floor. Bucky can feel that he’s pressing into him, pressing something to his shoulder. And he’s looking down at Bucky, eyes full of terror, and back at Brock, with rage. Burning rage.

But Brock has a gun on them still. 

They have nowhere to go.

‘I do know you,’ Steve finally says, looking back at Brock, ‘I have known you for so long Brock. And I knew it then. I know it now. I’ve always known exactly what you are.’ His hands against Bucky’s chest are painful. But Bucky never wants them to let go.

He doesn’t want Steve to keep talking though. Steve is going to get himself killed. If he can just hold Brock off, at least until Sam gets back… Sam must be on his way… Mustn’t he?

Bucky can’t remember. He can’t remember…

But someone will be coming. Steve just has to play along.

‘Stu-’ Bucky tries to speak, but his tongue is heavy. He can’t breathe… he can’t seem to suck the air in right.

‘Stevie, he’s putting lies in your pretty little head, baby,’ Brock says, quietly… too softly. 

‘Where’s Morita? Brock? Where are the other’s?’

‘Morita’s a hack, he’s always been a hack Stevie,’

‘What did you do?’

‘He was in on it too, don’t you see? He’s probably been working for George all this time that he’s been away from your ma.’

‘No.’

‘He wouldn’t let me in, Stevie, I had to get him out of the way.’

‘No. Brock. You fucking asshole. _You’ve_ been working for George Barnes! Morita has a _family_.’

‘I was just getting myself on the inside Stevie, I was trying to stop this.’

‘You’re so full of _shit_.’

He’s closer now. Steve is still trying to pull them backwards, but Brock is already standing over them. Bucky has a clearer view of him now, and his face is twisted and bitter. He’s pointing the gun down at Bucky. At his face. 

This is how he’s going to die.

‘You can go to hell, Brock Rumlow,’ Steve says, his voice just as quiet, just as cold. ‘You better shoot me too, or I’ll run you down and tear you limb from fucking limb, I swear to god.’

‘No!’ Bucky tries to shout, but it's just a strangled cry.

No. This can’t be how it ends. Not like this. 

‘Please,’ Bucky tries again. 

But Steve is shaking his head down at him. Tears running down his face.

And when Bucky looks up at Brock, his face is murderous.

‘You wanna die here like this?’

‘I want you to rot in hell,’ Steve says. ‘I’m not going _anywhere_ with you.’

Bucky can see it. The moment that Brock sighs. The moment he decides to cut his losses. 

‘You know your daddy was the same, Stevie. I tried to tell him, he could have buried George Barnes that night, we could have brought him down together, but oh no, your da wanted to give him a _chance_.’ 

Bucky can feel Steve behind him, can see him shaking his head. He’s so close, he only has to look up to see the whites of his eyes so wide.

‘Can you believe that nobody ever knew? All I had to do was tip off the cops to that meeting, and your da didn’t even put up a fight. Died like a little bitch.’

‘You?’ Steve barely breathes the words.

Brock has his finger on the trigger and he’s laughing. He’s just laughing at them. ‘They were so desperate to keep you apart, all I had to say was that it would make the other families _nervous_.’

Brock… Brock did this? All of this? It’s hard for Bucky to think. But Brock couldn’t have been more than twenty back then…

Still, it doesn’t surprise Bucky. He was always a creep. He talked Bucky into too many things that Bucky would rather forget.

And he’s looking up at Brock. Up at that smug face. He twists his head as much as his broken body will let him, looks at Steve. Watches Steve lean forward and put his forehead to the muzzle.

‘Just do it,’ Steve says. He’s talking to Brock, but he’s looking at Bucky. Still has Bucky in his arms. ‘You may as well finish it Brock.’

And Bucky watches Steve close his eyes.

And this is really it. This is how it ends.

  
  
  
  


### Wanda

Wanda hears a noise, a car, and is out of bed in an instant. Pietro is asleep, sleeps right through it. And she doesn’t need to wake him. He’s better to stay here.

It could be Sam and the others. If something happened they would have called. But they might be coming back to switch shifts. To wake her up and get her to take a turn on watch.

Wanda checks her phone and sees a message from Nat. They left, about five minutes ago. To go to Sam, Nat says, something is happening. Wanda needs to check with one of the others, one of the Irish men, maybe. They'll have got a message too.

She grabs her sweater and shoves her gun into the back of her pants. Closes the door softly behind her so as not to wake her brother. Sam said Pietro was going to be okay. And Wanda trusts Sam, he wouldn’t lie to her. But, piz-dets, he’d looked rough. So pale. So drawn. It's been a while since Wanda has seen her brother like that.

Not since Russia maybe…

But before Wanda can make it to the top of the stairs she hears raised voices. And then the distinct pop of a gunshot. She has her gun out in an instant. But there’s more than one voice, two voices, deep and angry. 

Wanda knows those voices. It’s Rumlow, and his creepy friend.

She feels nauseous all of a sudden. Rumlow is… she hates him. She hates the way he touches her. Hates the liberties he takes with all the dancers. The way he talks to Bucky.

And she would have spat in his face long ago if old man Barnes hadn’t loved him so fucking much. For some reason that none of them could figure out. 

And Wanda is frozen, she doesn’t know what to do. Should she run back to Pietro, should she stand her ground here in the hallway… should she find the Irish men and get their help? 

She can use her gun. She can shoot okay. She’s used it before in ways that normal people don’t need to use guns… but she hates it.

She hates the feel of it in her hand.

She hates the kickback, the violence of it, the sound, the mess… She hates the damage. And standing here in the hallway, waiting for the answer to be given to her, instead of making it herself, has just meant that she’s not ready when Brock appears at the top of the steps.

She’s not ready when he snaps forward and wraps his huge, disgusting hand over her mouth, when he pushes her silently into the wall and hisses into her ear, ‘Where’s Steve?’

God he’s foul. Everything about him is repulsive. Wanda’s stomach is roiling, he’s touching her. She should’ve never let him touch her. His whole body is pressing her up into the wall, his hand on her mouth is so hard it's cutting her teeth into her lip. And all she can think is that she lost her chance. She could have fucking shot him as he came up the stairs and she hesitated.

She hesitated.

And now she’s going to die.

They’ll all die.

‘Tell me where the fuck he is little witch,’ Brock is whispering, spitting the words into Wanda’s ear, ‘i might even keep you? Could I keep you, little witch? I could tie you up… I could cut out your tongue… would you like that? Little whore? You could be a nice wet hole for me fuck whenever I felt like it.’

Wanda isn’t even thinking further than to hurt, to maim, she opens her mouth as wide as his hand will allow - hardly at all - and then bites down on the skin between her teeth. He flinches but he doesn’t make a noise. 

He does use his fist though, right into Wanda’s ribs, a sharp, fast punch that leaves her breathless. Leaves her vision swimming. Her throat burning. She drops the gun. She tries to kick up with her knees, but he’s got her pressed so tight to the wall she can’t move.

‘You might be more trouble than that little hole is worth, bitch,’ the words are barely a whisper but Wanda can feel them cut down her spine like a knife. ‘I don’t think I’ll keep you after all.’

She doesn’t even feel it, the hit, when it comes. The world just goes dark. 

When she opens her eyes again she’s on the floor. Her head aches like it's been squeezed by a vice. Like someone has pummelled her with a shovel - in fact it's very like that, Wanda remembers exactly what that feels like and it feels like this. Like she’s on fire, and the flames are burning in her blood, down her body, radiating out into her limbs. Pain, just pain… 

But she can hear voices. She can hear shouting. She turns her head to find one of the Irish guys grappling with Rollins - Monty? Their names were strange - dragging each other down the stairs, she gets onto her hands and knees to see the door to the room just beyond the staircase open. The voices are coming from there. 

Brock. And that guy Steve, it sounds like… she doesn’t hear Bucky…

The gun. The gun is just next to her on the floor. She struggles to balance on one hand while she reaches over to grip the hilt, to pull it close.

And now that gun is an extension of her hand, it has been before, it can be again. She feels its purpose calm her scattered brain. 

Brock. She can kill him. She can end him. She can make him into dust. All she needs to do is get to her feet. All she needs to do is steady her balance.

She needs to take steps, steps toward that open door. She ignores the sound of the fighting on the stairs. She needs to focus, she needs to find her target. 

The door is right there…

And when she gets there she can see him. Bucky is on the floor, bloody, Steve behind him, wrapped around him, and Brock is standing over them with a gun to Bucky’s face. But then Steve ducks down to press his forehead into the muzzle, looks up at Brock with hate. Hate that Wanda can relate to.

And this time she doesn’t hesitate. This time she aims, she steadies her arm, and she squeezes the trigger. 

And Brock’s head explodes.

  
  
  


### Steve

Steve hears the crack of the gunshot, he feels a spray of something wet, something warm, fan out over him. But he doesn’t feel any pain…

His ears are ringing, he opens his eyes and Brock is gone. 

Well.

Brock is on the floor...but his face seems to be missing… and when Steve looks down he’s covered in it… blood and flesh, brain matter, bits of bone. 

He doesn’t even care enough to be disgusted. His mind, his eyes, go straight to Bucky, who is looking up at him wide eyed, terrified.

They both turn at the same time to the doorway, towards the source of the shot, to the figure standing there, gun still aimed, frozen, staring down at Brock’s ruined body. 

Wanda.

It’s Wanda. 

She looks white as a sheet, she’s bleeding from the head, her whole body just sort of falls, like her strings have been cut, and she crumples to the ground. But Steve can’t worry about her now. His eyes travel straight back to Bucky.

That shot is in his upper chest, close to his shoulder. Close enough to have done major damage. And the way he’s fading, it seems like it has.

Steve needs to get him cleaned first, get pressure on the wound. He needs to see what he’s working with.

‘Wanda,’ He looks over at her and she’s just staring at Brock, ‘Wanda!’

At the shout she turns to Steve and her eyes are glazed but she’s looking at him. That's a good sign.

‘Wanda I need you to help me get him into the shower.’

She nods, lids herself carefully onto her knees and then up to standing, ‘Your friend is out there with Rollins…’

And Steve can hear it, the shouting. 

‘Fuck!’ he says - to no one. To everyone. To empty air. ‘Can you help him? I can’t leave Bucky, I need to keep pressure on this.’

He feels Bucky trying to twist his head and tries to stop him, tries to hold him firm. 

‘Steve, go,’ Bucky is looking up at him, his pupils so wide, his breathing short and sharp, the words barely audible, ‘needs you.’

Wanda is wringing her hands and Steve just shakes his head at her. Nods down at Bucky. And she can see. She can see how bad it is. That Steve can’t go anywhere, and it's enough for her to nod back. Enough for her to back up and spin around, take off to the stairwell, probably faster than she should be moving with a head wound like that. Looking in shock as she clearly must be.

But Steve can’t think about that now. Wanda is clearly capable. He can trust her. He chooses to trust her, and he lets himself zero in on his priority right now. On Bucky. He needs to get him into the bathroom. Needs to jostle him as little as possible, needs to keep him partially upright. 

Needs to keep him the fuck alive. Otherwise this was all for nothing. And Brock… and Brock will have taken everything from him. 

He can’t think about that now.

Bucky tries to lift a hand up to Steve's face, but Steve can’t even hold it, Steve needs both hands on the hole in Bucky’s shoulder. 

‘Buck, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. Okay? I need to clean you so I can figure out what I’m dealing with.’

He very gingerly gets up onto his knees, and he slowly, slowly drags Bucky backwards. Back towards the bathroom only a few steps behind him.

If it’s hit the artery Steve doesn’t have a lot of time to get him to a hospital. And he hasn’t taken pressure off since it hit, but it doesn’t seem like enough, didn’t seem like enough of an initial spray, for it to be an artery.

But Bucky can’t seem to move, seems almost completely out of it, and that means it’s hit something. Something is wrong and it could be anything. It could be anything.

He gets Bucky all the way to the shower, his muscles on fire trying to drag him but keep him as still as possible. He can see the gun and the phone in the shower amongst Bucky’s tossed clothes. He props Bucky up against the tub, and he lets go of the pressure, he has to. Watches as the blood starts to run. But it’s not gushing.

It’s not an artery.

Steve scrubs at his own hands and face in the sink, his chest, dries himself with a towel and then gets the water in the shower turned on. There’s a hand held shower head fixed next to the giant rain head Steve had used earlier to have his fucking meltdown - and at least that's going to make this easier. 

He runs back out to the room and grabs his med bag from the floor next to the bed, thanking god that Bucky had brought it up earlier. 

‘Buck, I gotta cut you outta this, okay?’ He grabs scissors from his bag and squats down next to Bucky.

Bucky doesn’t even nod, his eyes are blinking longer and slower, but Steve needs him to stay awake right now. 

‘Don’t sleep, okay baby? I need you to stay here with me.’ He’s watching Bucky try to swivel his head, but it’s tough. ‘Don’t go to sleep, okay? Don’t leave me.’

Steve’s breath hitches on the words, but he doesn’t have time for that. He can’t think about that. He cuts Bucky free of the filthy clothes and throws them into the bathtub and then he gets both arms under Bucky, who cries out as soon as Steve’s hands go under his arms. And Steve falls back in an instant.

‘Fuck, okay hang on.’ He gets an arm under the good shoulder, the right shoulder, and lifts him carefully, drags him that bit further into the shower. ‘Okay, here we go.’

The water is warm but not hot. Steve unhooks the shower head and brings it down so he can run it carefully over Bucky’s hair and face and then shoulders, making sure to push the mess from Brock’s face back and away from the wound. 

It’s a mess.

He leans Bucky forward to look at the exit wound but there isn’t one. The bullet is in there somewhere. The hole in his shoulder is not that big, but the amount of shock that Bucky is in, the amount he’s almost blacking out. That level of pain means something in there has been hit. If Steve had to guess he’d say the clavicle is shattered, maybe the brachial plexus has been torn. That’s painful. That’s bad.

At least he’s finally clean.

‘Buck, stay with me, baby,’ Steve keeps saying, repeating it over and over. ‘Don’t leave me, okay? I need you.’

And he’s packing the wound with gauze, he’s wrapping a bandage around it, when he hears voices, he hears footsteps, and he see’s Wanda and Monty and Morita rushing into the bathroom. 

‘Wanda, I need pants, can you get us both some sweats from Buck’s closet?’ Steve starts talking at them, he doesn’t even wait to hear what they have to say. ‘Monty we need to get him to Bruce. Who can drive?’

‘I can drive,’ Monty, Morita and Wanda all say together, and Steve looks up at all of them in turn, scans their injuries as quickly as possible and can see that they're all full of shit.

‘Where the fuck _is_ everybody?’ Steve asks.

‘Here, we’re here!’ Sam is shouting, running into the room and stopping short at what he can see on the bathroom floor. ‘Fuck, oh fuck.’

Steve holds a hand up to stop him at the doorway, stop him from barrelling into them. ‘I think it’s shattered his collar bone, maybe hit his nerve cluster. He's in a lot of pain and he can’t move.’

‘Oh fuck, fuck, _fuck!’_ Sam is shouting and Steve makes another gesture for Sam to stop with his raised hand.

‘Just keep calm,’ Steve says, keeping his eyes fixed to Sam, ‘We need to get him in the car, he’s not going to bleed out yet, and I’ve cleaned it. We need to get him to Bruce, Bruce Banner. He’s a doctor at my hospital and he’s part of the family. He can help us.’

He’s helped them so much already tonight. But he’ll help them again. Bruce is like that. He’s good people.

‘Okay, okay,’ Sam says, nodding his head, ‘Nat and Clint are downstairs, let's get him in the car. Clint can drive.

‘We need to get that mess cleaned up, get rid of the body.’ Wanda is leaning on the doorframe, but her eyes are more alert now. She’s looking better. 

Steve and Sam both nod along to her point, and Morita and Monty start backing out of the bathroom.

‘We can do that,’ Morita says, looking at Monty who nods in agreement. ‘You go. We’ll take care of it.’

Steve looks him over, stops at the head wound. It’s a huge tear across his forehead. ‘Are you… Are you okay Morita?’

‘Oh this?’ he says, lifting a hand to the wound, ‘Yeah, I’m good. They must have just glanced it, I woke up and they were up here already. Monty was on his way back down with that big guy downstairs in a headlock. We took care of him.’

Steve nods along. He feels like he’s doing nothing but nodding along with everyone tonight. But it's all he can do. He needs to go. He and Sam need to get Bucky out of here.

And Bucky is in his arms, looking up at him with a smile. He opens his mouth to say something but the words are slurred. Steve can’t understand him.

‘Tell me later, okay Buck? Tell me later. We gotta go.’

They don’t have time for more. Sam helps him get himself under Bucky’s good shoulder with as little pain to Bucky as possible. 

Nat is at the top of the stairs, holding herself up against the wall with a shaky hand, and blood is seeping through her shirt where her stitches have popped.

'We left… we left…' she's saying over and over, staring with horror and Steve and San get closer, Bucky nestled carefully between them.

'Nat, we don't have time for you to crucify yourself over this,' Sam says softly, 'We have to get him to the hospital.'

'No hospitals,' Nat says, shaking her head. But there's no conviction in it.

'I'll take him to Bruce, Natalia, Bruce will look after us.'

'Okay, but I'm calling him.'

'You need to lie down,' Clint says, coming upthe stairs to stand behind her, 'And we need to clean up this fucking shitshow.'

'You need to drive them,' Nat says, turning to glare at Clint.

'I should be here-'

'You need to go so I don't have to,' Nat lays a palm on Clint's chest, 'Please.'

Clint nods reluctantly.

'That's fine, that's good.' Sam gestures with his head, 'but you all need to move so we can get him downstairs and into the car.'

Bucky is barely conscious. His head is lolling, his face is slack. His eyes are open but they’re hazy. 

They’re running out of time.

‘Yes go, Jesus, go,’ Nat says, patting Steve on the shoulder on his way past. ‘I’ll call Bruce, he’ll meet you out the front.’

They call out their acknowledgments and Clint follows behind them as they take the stairs as carefully as possible. It’s frightening Steve, how much noise Bucky isn’t making right now. Considering how much pain he should be in. But they get him into the car, Sam in the far back and Steve and Bucky in the middle. Steve with his arms wrapped around him, to keep him still, keep him stable. Keep him safe - if he can…

If he’s not too late...

Steve’s heart is in his stomach the entire trip. It’s not that far, but it’s far enough that he keeps Bucky wrapped tight to his chest. He keeps his hand on the wound. Bucky is nodding off and Steve is constantly forcing him awake. Forcing him to feel the pain. Forcing him to open his eyes. Forcing him to not fucking leave, please don’t fucking leave…

“Looks like your man is out here,’ Clint says, pulling into the entrance off the staff carpark that Steve directed him to. 

Steve looks out the window and sees Bruce waiting for them under the flickering fluorescent lighting. He looks tired, resigned.

Jesus, he must have been on shift for twenty hours now.

‘Hey guys,’ Bruce, that calm tone, that even cadence, is coming towards them as Sam opens the back door, ‘Natalia called me, told me what she knew, which wasn’t much actually.’ He’s looking at Bucky and his face is impassive. But Steve knows Bruce, and he can see the worry he’s hiding. ‘Let's get you inside huh?’

Bruce helps them get Bucky onto a gurney and finally lying down. They got him into sweats, but that's all he’s wearing. Steve is the same, and Sam offers him his jacket to hide his bare chest. It's a little small, there's glitter at the collar, but he can zip it up, so he does. It's better than nothing.

He looks down at Bucky's chest, at the dressing, and it’s bleeding through.

‘Is he going to need a transfusion?’ Bruce asks, ‘how much has this bled?’

‘The bleeding has been mostly contained,’ Steve replies automatically, ‘He needs saline and morphine, but I... I have no idea if he’s allergic to anything.’

‘No, nothing,’ Sam adds, jogging next to the gurney as they wheel him into an empty theatre room, 'He's not allergic to anything.'

‘We have about an hour before they need to come back and clean this,’ Bruce says, ‘that’s all they could give me.’ 

Steve knows Bruce is a favourite with most of the staff. And he does a lot of favours for a lot of people, if he has people watching out for them, then Steve has one less thing to worry about.

And as Bruce cuts away the bandage, Bucky stirs. Tries to sit up but still can’t really move.

‘Bucky, you need to lie back, okay? Bruce is going to have to get the bullet out and check the damage.’ Steve tries to keep his voice as calm as possible but it breaks on the last word, and he turns his face away to blink back the tears. 

‘Steve, can you get me the saline and the morphine? We’ll get Bucky sorted, you go.’

‘Yeah, okay. Okay,’ Steve croaks out, turning on his heel and leaving before Bucky’s pleading eyes can pull him back.

He gets them the saline and the morphine without too much trouble. When he returns to the room, Bucky is shaking his head back and forth weakly, Steve helps Sam hook them up into the cannula he’s inserted and he tries to calm the panic rising in his chest. 

  
  


‘Steve I need you to step back, okay? Or he’s just going to keep reaching for you,’ Bruce says, laying a hand on Steve’s chest to push him gently back. ‘Mr Wilson and I can get this, you just stand back for a minute.’

And that’s how it goes. He has to watch them work. He has to watch Bruce get the bullet out. Has to watch Sam looking haunted, like he’s seen this before and it didn’t end well. But it doesn’t falter him. Sam keeps his feet, assists Bruce with everything. He knows his shit.

Steve just watches and prays and spares a thought for the fact that his ma is probably here somewhere too. Probably down in the morgue. Probably cold and alone and dead. Gone. He’ll never speak to her again. She’ll never speak to him. 

He can’t think about it. 

He can’t.

'This doesn't look terrible,' Bruce says, as he's fishing out fragments, Bucky barely moving, but whimpering softly, 'It's not good, looks like nerve damage, and bone damage, but it's not total. It hasn't hit the artery.' Bruce looks up at Steve and then back to Bucky's shoulder, 'He's lucky.'

'Lucky...' Steve whispers to himslef. He isn't lucky. If Steve had pulled him down faster, if they hadn't been so distracted... if he hadn't stolen all of Bucky's focus. This would never have happened...

It takes them just under the hour to get it done. Bucky is stitched and sedated and finally calm. The morphine is working its magic and the pinched pained look is gone. Replaced with just a soft, beautiful, sleeping face. Steve reaches out to lay a palm over Bucky’s hand and says one last prayer to Mary. To protect him. To protect Bucky. To keep her promises. 

But they need to get him out of here. Back to the house where they can monitor him. Where they can wait to see how extensive the nerve damage is and how much function he’ll have in that arm.

That could take weeks. 

Steve will stay and take care of him. He’s decided it already. He has so much leave time. And his ma is gone. The hospital will have to give him the time.

‘Do you want to see Sarah?’ Bruce asks him, like he’s reading Steve’s mind. ‘Before you go?’ Sam looks at him and nods his head. They have maybe ten minutes. 

‘Please,’ Steve replies. ‘Yes, please.’

He backs out of the room, keeping his eyes on Bucky for as long as possible, until he reaches the door and turns away. Bruce winds him through the halls of the hospital. People are watching them but they remain quiet. They’re looking at him with that expression. That expression he’s probably given to hundreds of patients' families - There was nothing that could be done. Your ma is gone. I’m so sorry for your loss...

It feels surreal enough that it doesn’t hurt.

Yet.

‘Do you want me to wait with you?’ Bruce is standing by the drawer at the back wall of the morgue and Steve doesn’t want him to open it. He doesn’t want to see. 

And at the same time he’s desperate to know if it’s true. Or if it's somehow a lie. Some horrible mistake. 

‘I don’t know,’ he says honestly to Bruce. ‘I don’t know…’

‘Okay, that’s okay.’ Bruce doesn’t ask him any more questions. He opens the drawer and the body is under a sheet. He only opens it enough that he can pull the sheet down off the face and Steve is watching with horrified fascination as the hair, the forehead, the closed eyes are all revealed.

The nose, the lips, the chin.

He’d know that face anywhere.

He doesn’t even have any tears left to cry. He stands over her body and he’s empty. A shell. But something inside of him has shattered. Splintered. His heart has frozen. He’s looking down at his mother’s body and he can’t feel anything.

Except that it’s true. It’s all true. Every devastating detail. 

His ma is gone.

She’s gone.

He flees the room and finds the bathrooms, to collapse in front of a toilet and throw up the last of the bile that's left in his system. He can hear Bruce outside the stall, but he’s giving Steve space… as if the space will somehow help him. As if being alone can make this better.

Maybe it will make it easier...

He’s thinking about just staying here. In the bathroom. On the floor. His head in the bowl of a public toilet. When he remembers being in almost the same position just hours ago. In his own bathroom. At his own toilet. And the warmth and the strength of the man who had held him. 

But this time Bucky needs Steve.

This time Bucky needs Steve's arms. Steve's strength.

He needs to get up. Get back upstairs. Get back to Bucky.

Bucky is his family now.

He takes the emergency stairwell back to where Sam is waiting. Bruce not far behind. And he collapses into the seat at Bucky’s bedside.

'Let me go organise the car. Can we get a wheelchair, Bruce?' Sam asks, 'will that draw attention?'

'No, I can organise a chair. You get your friend to bring the car around to the same exit, we can meet you there.' 

They're talking around Steve, but he knows what they're doing. Giving them space here, again, if only for a minute.

Steve appreciates it. All these people, all of the work it's taken to keep he and Bucky alive tonight. To keep them together.

He tucks his hand under Bucky's right hand and threads their fingers together. He tries to push all of his warmth and strength through their joined hands.

And his heart skips when he feels Bucky's fingers tighten. Feels them squeezing back. 

Whatever happens from here, whatever their next obstacle… as long as they have this, each other, they can face it.

They can lend each other strength.

The Rogers and the Barnes can finally do what everyone has been so terrified of for so long. They can join forces. Amalgamate the families.

And they can carry out Sarah Rogers legacy. 

Together.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus epilogue to soften this blow. 
> 
> Read on, lovelies---


	9. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short little epilogue, to give you the softness.
> 
> Give these two everything they deserved.
> 
> Thanks for reading.

###  Six Months Later

Bucky carries the cardboard tray carefully, testing the strength in his healing arm, how much balance, how much he can push it. When the tray starts to wobble he transfers it to his right. He doesn’t need to push it right now. That’s what his physical therapy is for.

Today's hospital visit is about something much nicer than pain and punishment. 

Today is a day just for calm and comfort.

He nods at the nurses on the admissions desk, gives them a careful wave with his left hand, and they wave back, happy to see him, one of them calling out to Steve that ‘his boyfriend’s here’, that Steve’s ‘an asshole and everyone should get free coffee. What’s so special about you?’ 

And Bucky laughs because the guy is cute and it makes him happy to think that he gets to be part of this. The work banter. The everyday stuff. Steve’s life.

Bucky gets to be a part of this now.

He’s laughing as Steve pops his head out of one of the curtained rooms to find Bucky and smile his stupidest most adorable smile. At Bucky. For Bucky. 

Bucky can’t help the probably equally stupid grin he gives him in return.

‘Hey! Is that for me?’ Steve says, gesturing down to the coffee in Bucky’s hand.

‘Thought maybe you could use an extra one today, we were up kinda late last night.’

‘Oh my god, please take your googly love eyes away from my station,’ Sharon, the Nurse manager, says as she looks up from her paperwork, ‘This is meant to be a sterile environment.’

Steve laughs at her and turns back to say something to his patient, comes back to hand her his clipboard. ‘Of course, Sharon, you’re the boss,’ and he winks when she scoffs at him, ‘I’ll just be out on the terrace.’

Bucky lets Steve take his left hand and thread their fingers together. Lets the other nurses believe that they were up late together doing cute couple things and not hunting down a lead on who’s been trying to hijack the latest alcohol shipments.

It’s nice to have this time to just be a normal couple.

‘Thank you for this though, really,’ Steve says, looking over at Bucky and fixing him with those beautiful blue eyes. Lashes for days. It’s fucking ridiculous how perfect this man is. Bucky is struck anew by that fact everyday.

‘I just wanted an excuse to see you,’ Bucky says, elbowing him with his healing arm, pushing with the strength he can find there. It makes Steve smile even brighter.

‘Well, good.’ Steve stops them when they get outside to the makeshift park on the terrace. To sit at one of the unoccupied benches and take his coffee from the tray in Bucky’s hand. ‘I always love to see you.’

‘Good,’ Bucky parrots. He leans over and presses his lips gently to Steve’s. ‘I guess that works out perfectly then’

And it does. Everything has, so far. Even after everything they’ve been through. With everything they’re still desperately trying to build back up…

This, the two of them…

It’s perfect.

They’re perfect. 

As long as they’re together anything is possible. Bucky feels it in the way Steve rests his head so gingerly on his damaged shoulder. How Bucky can take the weight and be glad for it. How it centres him.

He feels it in the way they’re heartbeats even out, find a rhythm. 

And he lets it fill him with happiness. 

And he looks forward to a future full of moments just like this.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking this journey with me.
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience and your perseverance.
> 
> I love you all dearly.
> 
> If you wanna come chat with me, you can find me [here](https://darter-blue.tumblr.com/) on tumblr or [here](https://twitter.com/beclouise13) on twitter


End file.
